


One Summer Almost Changed Everything

by XFiles93Aficionado



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Episode: s03e08 The Battle of Starcourt, F/M, Father-Daughter Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Jopper, Post-Season/Series 03, The Upside Down, not entirely canon compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-06-25 09:59:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 76,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19743367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XFiles93Aficionado/pseuds/XFiles93Aficionado
Summary: Hopper’s fate after the battle of Starcourt is…well, it is what it is—to stay spoiler-free. But as Joyce comes out of the Russian caves, escorted by the military, she can’t shake the feeling that something is off. From then on she’s a woman on a mission.MAJOR SPOILER ALERT/ DO NOT READ UNLESS YOU’VE WATCHED ALL EIGHT EPISODES FROM SEASON 3.Set shortly before Joyce closes the gate.Centered around El-Hopper and Joyce-Hopper relationships.





	1. July 6th, 1985.

##  **Saturday, July 6th, 1985.**

He had a feeling, a terrible gut feeling that he wouldn’t make it back to Joyce in time. Who was he kidding? He wasn’t the fast runner he’d been in high school or in Vietnam. And even less so after the recent months when he’d wallowed in his self-destructive habits again, abusing beer and cigarettes and junk food while El lost with love. He mentally cringed at the word. _Love_. But he’d never _ever_ blame her. No. He’d been there, for one, and two, Eleven had been the one to bring him back to feeling alive and loved and needed again. Never would he blame her. If Hopper had indulged with booze, he was the only one to blame. It was on him and himself alone if he couldn’t return in time to the control room.

He thought quickly. _Plan B_. He looked toward the gate to this hellish world—that goddamn gate that was still open and open way more than three goddamn inches—and he knew that this was his chance. Their chance. The faster Joyce closed the portal, the sooner their kids would be safe. If he couldn’t make it back to the safety of the control room, he could possibly make it to the Upside Down instead. He wouldn’t be safe for a while. But he would be safe from the impending explosion nonetheless.

He returned his attention to her. Joyce. This woman extraordinaire, beautiful and kind and altogether stronger and more vulnerable than any other woman he knew, whom had once been her best friend when they’d been just kids, whom had become his best friend again in the last two years, and for whom he’d grown feelings which weren’t strictly of the friendship sort. He could almost see her thin lips trembling now as she pursed them tightly, hear her heart pounding and sense the fear and apology in her pleading eyes, wet in light of the impossible choice.

He smiled at her, a smile he wasn’t sure reached his eyes. A smile he meant to be reassuring but that squeezed at his heart nevertheless.

_It’s okay_ , he wanted to say, and gave her a small nod of knowing approval. He couldn’t speak—she wouldn’t hear him anyway—he couldn’t even mouth the words. _Do it_.

Time held its course an instant as their eyes hung to one another’s for dear life. A safe line between them, invisible, impossibly tense, threatening to break at any moment. If the line were as tangible as their urgent gaze, maybe she could pull him back and save him. But of course she couldn’t.

She tore her gaze away, pressed her eyes shut, and he dashed away. Away from Joyce, from the laser, from the world as he knew and liked it. Toward the goddamn rift. Toward his only chance.


	2. Chapter 2

Joyce lumbered like a zombie, her autopilot flicked on, through the shambles of a main court in the unrecognizable mall engulfed in flames and smokes. Whatever had happened inside Starcourt, whatever her kids had been through, it was worse than she’d imagined. At the sight of this huge, ugly creature, her legs gave way and if it weren’t for Murray catching her elbow, she’d have fallen down.

“They’re not here,” he whispered.

It was meant to reassure her. It didn’t. She’d waited too long to switch the laser off—as horrible for Hopper’s fate as it sounded, she’d waited too long. There was a lot of blood on the floor, and it wasn’t rocket science to figure out that someone had died here. Let it not be Will or Jonathan…or Eleven. Or Mike or Lucas or— All her kids’ friends’ names crashed through her mind. Not a kid. Please, let it not be a kid.

A little farther, Joyce could still see Hopper’s footprint where he’d minutes before smashed the gory worm-like tendril. _God, Hop…_ It did feel like only a few minutes. How could someone be alive one instant and gone the next? She couldn’t deal with that thought. Couldn’t deal with the idea that he was gone forever. It registered and yet it didn’t. That just was impossible. They’d been through so much together. They’d gone through hell and back when they’d rescued Will two years ago. A lifetime ago. If there was one person—one man—who could make it back from hell, it was him. It was Hopper.

“Come on,” Murray said as he gently coaxed her toward the parking lot.

She hadn’t even realized she’d been frozen on the spot, on the last spot that proved that Hopper had been alive.

_What if…?_ she wondered. For the first time since she’d exited the control room, since she’d faced Dr. Owens and the army, since she and Murray had gotten in and out of the elevator, she realized with shocking clarity that there had been no trace of Hopper next to the laser where she’d last seen him standing. Not a single drop of blood. No burning leftover clothes. No ashes. No nothing. _What if…he’d somehow made it to safety?_

All thoughts of Hopper vanished when they were in the parking lot. The lot crawled with military and police and firefighters and EMTs, the night lit by the flashing blue lights of their umpteen vehicles. Murray said something to her, about going to talk to some officials, and walked away as she spun her eyes around. When she spotted Will at the back of an ambulance, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, his gaze lost, something loosened inside her. He was alive. Her sweet little boy was alive.

The faintest of smiles illuminated his face, and then he tossed the blanket aside, ran toward her, and wound his frail arms around her. She hugged him as tight as she physically could. She closed her eyes for the smallest moment. Breathed him in. Feeling his damp skin against her cheek as he softly sobbed on her shoulder. When Joyce opened her eyes again, she noticed Eleven and she winced.

Trudging across the concrete of the lot, haggard and disheveled, her arms hanging loosely at her sides, she sought for the only one she’d only known as family. The one who’d stood up and braved everything and everyone for her. The only one who was apparently missing.

All at once Joyce felt relief and dread. And the expression in Eleven’s eyes told Joyce that El felt terrified. The girl had not found her dad but she stopped looking around and held her gaze to Joyce’s instead, most likely reading the answer she was searching for.

As Joyce held tighter onto her youngest son, Joyce’s and Eleven’s eyes clung to one another. There was so much to say in a single gaze. So much Joyce and Hopper had said in their last gaze before he vanished off the face of the Earth. How could she tell this sweet girl who’d already seen so much that the person who loved her most was gone? And— _god!_ —was he really? She shut her eyes as tears rushed to Eleven’s. A bandage covered half the girl’s forehead, but how would Joyce ever be able to find the Band-Aid that would fix her broken heart?

When Joyce opened her eyes again, Eleven was on her knees, her face cradled into her hands, her shoulders shaking.

“Oh god…” she whispered as she let go of Will.

She sprinted to Eleven’s side, moving too quickly and hurting her ribcage in the process, and kneeled next to her.

“Sweetie,” Joyce said, stroking Eleven’s hair out of her face. She didn’t look up, kept crying in her hands, her breaths coming in and out in ragged gulps. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” Joyce continued, a lump in her throat.

“No!” Eleven suddenly decided, pushing away from Joyce and jumping to her feet. “No!” Eleven took a few steps back from Joyce. “He’s not gone! He can’t be gone!”

Eleven stormed off toward the mall. As she tried to get up, Joyce felt the stabbing pain in her right side again. She shouted her name at the girl’s back, watching helplessly as Mike chased after her. Joyce felt like a wrench herself, her emotions overwhelming her body like a simmering volcano.

“Mom…” Jonathan put a hand on her shoulder and she jumped at the touch.

“Jonathan!” she cried, her arms flying to his neck. “Hopper…” was all she managed to say next and it tore the dam that had until then held her tears captive.

She felt her son flinch. “Mike will catch her,” he whispered in her neck.

Joyce shook her head. “I can’t… Hopper…”

“What happened?” he asked as he helped her to her feet.

She was focusing on Eleven and Mike, letting herself be guided by her son toward an ambulance, her legs barely strong enough to hold her, her body limp.

“Please,” he called, “she’s in shock.”

No. She wasn’t in shock. She wasn’t in shock; she was just trying to squash the idea of a lifeless Hop as far down as possible in the back of her mind.

“Mom…” he repeated, “tell me what happened.”

She shook her head again. “I don’t know…” she breathed. “How can I tell her what happened when I don’t know that myself?” she said as much to herself as to Jonathan. “One moment he was right there…and then I closed my eyes…and I flipped the switches…and when I opened my eyes again the laser was exploding, there were electric arcs everywhere and he was…gone.” She looked up at Jonathan for a sign of something. Hope. Disbelief. Denial. Anything.

But he just gritted his teeth and swallowed hard, his head faintly bobbing up and down.

“But I didn’t _see_ him…you know…die. I didn’t!” she protested to his silent admission of Hopper’s demise, her words coming hot and fast. “Nor did I see him afterward or his body or—”

“Mom—” Jonathan warned softly, his hands reaching out to her shoulders to hold her still.

“Maybe— I mean there’s a chance that—”

“Mom, no.”

“The Russians…” Joyce felt her eyes open wider and glisten with a new realization. Her heart pounded in her ears. She broke away from Jonathan and paced in front of him. “They’d fled the place when the cavalry arrived!” Her thoughts cleared as the moment crystallized in her newly sharpened mind. There had been no one else there.

“What are you saying?” Jonathan said with a low voice as though he wasn’t sure he wanted to know what she was saying. He wasn’t having it and he wanted her to shut up, she knew it; she’d heard this very tone before. This was the same tiresome tone he’d used when Hopper had come to tell them they’d found Will’s lifeless body in the water at the quarry. He’d wanted her to shut up then, he wanted her to shut up now. The tone said she was losing it. But she wasn’t crazy. Everyone thought she was crazy back then, but she’d been the only one to see clearly.

“They were gone, Jonathan,” she insisted. “Every single one of them. One moment the place is swarming with comrades, skittering like roaches, and then all of a sudden they’re all gone. Don’t you see? There’s got to be a hidden door somewhere—” She started to move. “Oh god, Hop, I have to go back.”

Jonathan grabbed her arm and stopped her in her tracks. “Mom, stop!”

“But you don’t understand, maybe he’s still down there, and he _needs_ our help. I have to find him.”

“Mom—” He swallowed again and took a sharp intake of breath. “From what I understand…,” he began very calmly. “According to what you said, that laser pulverized everyone in that room.” He marked a small pause as if to make her understand. But he was the one who didn’t understand.

She shook her head. “No, you don’t get it—”

“Mom,” he said, cutting her off again. “No. He’s gone… No one could have survived that surge of power. No one.”

“No.” He was wrong.

“Mom,” he said for the hundredth time. “Look at her. Look at El.” They both turned their faces toward Mike and Eleven hugging one another, shivering and crying under a rain of water and ashes. Will was standing next to them, his hands fisted into balls at the back of his head. “You’re in denial,” Jonathan continued softly, carefully as if his mother may break. “I get it. I cared about him too, and I’ll miss him. He was a good man. But don’t give her false hopes. Don’t lead her to believe that her dad somehow, _miraculously_ made it. Just—don’t. She’s already been through too much.”

“Madam,” a man said at their backs.

They turned around and noticed two young EMTs watching them in concern

“Where are you hurt?”

“I don’t…” Joyce turned toward Eleven and the boys again and pressed her hand to her side. “I may have a broken rib,” she realized out loud.

“Let them take care of you,” Jonathan said as he helped her on the stretcher.

She looked at him. She felt torn and helpless. “Okay…” she whispered as tears gathered again at the back of her eyes. “But find Dr. Owens for me please.”

“Mom…”

“Please, Jonathan,” she said more firmly. “That’s all I’m asking. If there’s—” She took a deep breath as the words died in her throat. “If there’s but one chance, just one chance of him being… Just…find him for me please.”

“Okay,” he whispered, clearly not pleased by the idea.

“And tell Will and El to come with me. I want them checked out too.”

The two paramedics started toward the ambulance as Jonathan walked toward the teenagers. “Please,” she told them. “I’m waiting for my kid…for my kids. The girl, she’s,” she stammered, “her leg is hurt.”

“No problem, madam.”

In the ambulance, they helped her out of her Russian uniform and gently palpated the sides of her ribcage. She groaned in pain without losing sight of the kids, barely registering whatever the medical staff was saying. Jonathan moved away from them and headed toward the entrance of the mall, but the kids didn’t come forward right away.

When this was all over, it’d be time to move out of this town. Enough was enough. They were a story awaiting its dreadful new chapters. They’d all have to leave their friends behind—so would she—but that was for the best.

She didn’t have that many friends, she realized, and her throat constricted at the memory of Hopper. Of her and Hopper’s date.

_“I hear Enzo’s is pretty good. What do you say, Friday, eight o’clock?”_

_“Uh, El likes to watch_ Miami Vice _on Fridays. It starts at ten, so I-I can’t be out late on a Friday.”_

_“Okay, well, how about seven, then?”_

_“Seven, Enzo’s, Friday. I meet you there?”_

_“No, you pick me up.”_

_“Picking you up, seven p.m, Friday.”_

_“Yeah, it’s a date.”_

_“Just for clarification, just because I… I mean, just… If… When you say ‘date’—just so that we’re crystal clear, so there’s no confusion…”_

_“Yeah, Hop?”_

_“Yeah.”_

_“Stop talking or I’m gonna change my mind.”_

_“Yeah, okay. Yeah.”_

She pictured his eyes on her—piercing blue, often mischievous, then serious and unsure like those of a child—as they sat shoulder to shoulder. Her heart broke. What a stupid thing it had been to say. Couldn’t she have opened up instead? Tell him how she cared about him—very much—and how much it frightened her that they might lose what they had if they became intimate? She’d been the one to suggest that he talk heart to heart with his daughter, that he share his feelings with her, and Joyce hadn’t even been able to follow her own damn advice. She’d turned him down when he invited her to dinner before, and lied and had her own microwaved dinner and wine…alone. Thinking of Bob and not moving forward and— God, she didn’t want to lose him… Not him too. El was right; he _couldn’t_ be gone. He had no right. She wanted those blue eyes to bore into hers again. There were way too many sparkles in those eyes for them to have stopped shining.

“It does seem to be broken, ma’am.”

“What?”

“Your ribs. At least one of them seems to be broken. We need to get you to the hospital.”

“Yes, okay, I… All right, but can you go and get my kids. They’re the ones over there. I need them to come with us.”

One of the two guys agreed, jumped off the back of the ambulance and then purposefully walked toward the kids. Once he was by their side, Mike and El and Will all turned toward her. Eleven wiped her face with the back of her hand.

Joyce feebly waved her hand, her mouth in a tight smile.


	3. Chapter 3

“You okay?” Will asked quietly.

Eleven raised her gaze to her friend’s and slowly nodded. _Friends don’t lie. And they shouldn’t keep secrets from each other._ But if she said she wasn’t okay, what could Will actually do for her? What could anyone?

Her eyes flicked to the hospital bed and she set to watch Joyce who lay on it. She looked so peaceful, Eleven thought, almost envying her. Will was sitting on a chair that he’d dragged close to his mom’s bed while Eleven’s chair was still against the wall.

“Your leg okay?”

She blinked and nodded again.

The silence in the room was as thick as the air Hopper had described from the Upside Down. Palpable. There was no worry regarding Joyce’s injuries, she had not been sedated; she had simply fallen asleep while waiting for the results. What weighed so heavily in the air were the unspoken words, the questions which had yet to be answered.

“I wonder where Jonathan is,” Will said softly, eventually.

Eleven had no answer to that either.

“Will,” Joyce whispered.

Her eyes were still closed when Will leaned over the bed, his elbows on the edge of the mattress. “Yes, Mom.”

Joyce opened her eyes, paused to look at her son. She marveled at the contours of his face, lightly brushing her fingers against his cheek, as if she hadn’t seen him in a long time. Then she stroked his hair and turned her attention to Eleven. When Joyce smiled at her, her eyes were barely open.

“Hey, sweetie,” she said with an upturned smile, holding out her hand for Eleven to take.

El rose from her chair and reached out to Joyce. The woman squeezed the girl’s hand, her thumb lingering nervously on her own. Joyce had no words for Eleven and, for that, Eleven was grateful. Because she had no words either.

A small knock sounded on the door and all three turned in its direction. “Come in,” Joyce called softly.

Jonathan entered, followed close behind by Dr. Owens. They both looked frazzled.

Eleven had only seen Dr. Owens once, the day she’d closed the gate, and he had been in pretty bad shape back then. But Hopper had often talked about him; she thought he was one of the good guys. Now, as he let himself in Joyce’s room, Dr. Owens gave El a brief sideways glance, as if he was surprised to find her here, before he directed his attention to the woman in the room.

“Are you okay, Mom?”

“Just a broken rib.”

“And a concussion,” Will provided.

Jonathan nodded and looked uncomfortably at Will and Eleven. Mainly at Eleven, she figured. Joyce shifted as she tried to pull herself up on her already-slanted medical bed but Jonathan placed his palm against her shoulder, telling her gently not to move.

There was something about Joyce that made El uneasy. She’d shifted from calm and peaceful to full-alert mode in too short a time. Her eyes were now wide open, her hands tightly gripping the sheets, and she was holding her breath… It was like she was expecting even worse news. Dr. Owens’s eyes were locked on Joyce’s, and Eleven wondered what terrible information there still was to deliver.

A queasy case of nerves settled in Eleven.

“Would you give us a minute, guys?” Dr. Owens said in a calm voice that didn’t match Joyce’s demeanor.

“Come on,” Jonathan said, already a hand on Will’s shoulder.

Once in the hallway, Jonathan closed the door behind them, leaving Joyce and Dr. Owens to their private talk.

“What’s this about?” Will asked.

Jonathan looked at Eleven, as if asserting something, and then he shrugged and swallowed. “Paperwork, I imagine.”

_Paperwork_ , El repeated inwardly. What did that mean? She stared at Jonathan, and then at Will. Had she missed something? “Paperwork?” she repeated when she couldn’t decide what was going on. _How about that’s your word for the day?_

Jonathan studied Eleven an instant and scratched the back of his head. “It’s… Look, it’s nothing to be worried about, I promise. But I’d rather you talked to my mom.”

Will looked at his brother, puzzled. He didn’t have a clue as to what was going on either, she gathered. “Okay,” she murmured.

It wasn’t okay.

Hopper had talked about “paperwork” in the past, too.

“Paperwork” had attached her name to his in regard to the law. Like duct tape used to join two pieces of paper. Stitches to close a wound, sewing two broken lives together. Did this mean her name would now be attached to Joyce’s? Joyce had always been kind to her. From the very first day, Joyce had held her hand so that Eleven wouldn’t be scared. But did this mean Eleven would get her last name ripped away from her? Her adoptive dad’s name? Shouldn’t Joyce talk to her about it first? Like her dad had? Hopper had felt like the dad Eleven had never had in only a small matter of weeks, but she’d never actually called him “Dad” even though she referred to him as such when she spoke to her friends. She wasn’t ready to banish the name from her mouth—instead she wanted to call him that, to his face—and even less ready to call Joyce her mom if this was what it was about.

She wanted to run away. To disappear. Vanish inside the black hole which had taken Sara, then her dad. She didn’t want to be fatherless. She didn’t know how to be. She didn’t want another father either. Nor a mother. There was a pain deep inside her heart which hurt more than anything she’d ever felt before. Her lungs felt like they’d collapsed, leaving a deep hollow in their stead, and she couldn’t remember how to breathe. And there was a heaviness in the pit of her stomach, something that seemed to gnaw at her from within like a piece of her that was being ripped off.

She was tired. So tired. Her mind shot right to a dark night. Last November when she’d closed the gate, summoning all the strength she didn’t even know she had in her, she’d felt so completely drained afterward that Hopper had had to carry her out and back to the car. And now, rendered with no power, unable to recharge, she felt so exhausted that she longed for Hopper’s strong embrace again. She was desperate for him to hold her tight and never let go. It was all her fault. She’d let him down. She’d let him face it all by himself.

_I can fight,_ she’d asserted.

_Better than any of us,_ he’d agreed _. But right now I need you safe. This thing is after you. It’s not after me. Do you understand? Hey, I need you to understand._

She’d thought she’d understood. But that had been a mistake. Her mistake. And she’d forgotten to make him promise. _Promise you’ll be back? Promise you won’t leave me alone?_ She wanted him back. She just wanted him back. So badly. She promised silently, she _vowed_ that she’d listen to him from now on. If only he came back and never left her alone again. Whatever he requested, whatever he asked of her, even if that meant seeing Mike less often, she’d do it. She’d be the daughter he wanted. She just wanted him. She’d never needed someone as much as she needed him now, a need deep as a bottomless well, a need that rubbed her raw when everyone else around her checked their bandages in the mirror and staggered away.

Someone squeezed her shoulder.

She heard herself moan and took a deep breath as Will said her name again. “It’s just me,” he said gently, raising his hands in a halting gesture.

She was on the floor, tears coursing down her cheeks. Will and Jonathan smiled sadly at her. She shook her head, unable to stop her tears. “I don’t want—” She took another shaky breath and bit her lower lip to stop it from trembling. Her face fell, tilting downward at the cold black and white tiles, her hands balled into fists, and as she tried to catch her breath while letting her words out, she began to hiccup. “He-he can’t be dead, I—”

Jonathan slid his hands beneath her armpits as he tried to pull her up. “It’s gonna be okay.”

“It’s not,” she mumbled with drowsy effort, and pushed off the floor to stand up on her own. She sniffed and wiped her nose with her sleeves, the way she’d done it most of her life when there had been blood there. She didn’t need or want Jonathan’s embrace. She wanted her dad’s. She wanted to feel his large hand on her face as he pressed her head against his heart, and hear it beat—wildly, calmly, however it cared to, as long as it beat. “Not without him, it’s not.”

“El…” Will started.

“I’m not saying it’s going to be easy but—”

“Ssshh!” she cut Jonathan off more harshly than she meant. Her eyes squeezed shut, and her palms pressed firmly against her ears. She inhaled sharply. When her eyes flickered open again, she held her hands up, not wanting the boys any closer. “I just—” She took a step back. “I need to be alone.”

She turned from them and Jonathan grabbed her arm. “El.”

She whirled around, jerking his hand away. “No!” She stared at him and his brother, defiant. “I have a family. I have a dad. And he’s alive.” The heel of her palm went banging at her chest. “I _know_ it. I know he’s not gone. He said to be careful, and we were careful, and so was he.”

“El…” Will took a tentative step toward her.

“No… he’s not…gone.” The last word came as a quiet, quavering whisper, almost a helpless whimper.

She hobbled backward again, her eyes on the boys. When she was confident they wouldn’t try and stop her again, she turned around toward the end of the hall.

The boys each called her name but she didn’t turn back. She kept on walking.

She needed her powers back to find him. But if she couldn’t find him with them, she needed to know that _he_ could find her. And there was only one place to go. It was late; she was supposed to be home. He’d be worried if she wasn’t home.

Before she knew it she was running.


	4. Chapter 4

It was pitch black. Like the darkest night devoid of stars: The pit of a petroleum oil well. No hint of blue. Only the blackest black. All around him.

Ankle-deep water soaked his socks and shoes. He raised one foot and held his knee up, staring down as water dripped from his shoe. The water was clear and cold like that of a white river.

He lowered his foot down to the ground again and looked around.

_Where the hell_ was _he?_

The darkness seemed to stretch on infinitely. He couldn’t tell how far into it he actually saw. It was strange. In spite of the darkness, there was just about enough luminosity for him not to feel like he was in a dark room; it was lit enough to see his empty surroundings. But he could see no horizon.

“Hello?” he called out.

Wherever he was, he wondered if he wouldn’t have preferred finding himself in the Upside Down rather than in this realm he knew nothing about. This immense void.

“Hello?” he called out again, and realized no echo followed the word.

_Black hole,_ he thought and chuckled to himself. The black hole had finally got to him.

He started in a direction. There was no way to know where he was heading, let alone if he could not deviate from the path he’d taken.

On his journey, he’d strained his eyes, peering into the silent gloom. Several times he’d looked at his wristwatch, but it had stopped working.

_Splash_. 9,998. _Splash_. 9,999. _Splash_. He’d walked 10,000 steps until he realized what he was doing: counting the splashes. _Splash splash splash…_ This was a way to keep track of time as good as any—at least if he’d been a regular walker. Except, he realized, he hadn’t done it on purpose. His mind was as lost as his body in the void.

He kept on walking to wherever this no dead-end path went, but started trying instead to concentrate on how he’d ended up here. On Eleven. On Joyce.

“I don’t think it’s working,” a man with a thick Russian accent said angrily in a muffled voice.

“Give it time,” another replied. The voice was also buffered as if his own ears had been filled with cotton. But this man was American. Not anyone he knew. “If he’s there, we’ll know it.”

He stopped walking and looked around.

“Hello?”

Silence.

“Who’s there?”

There was no one but him. He was exhausted. He could use a chair. How long had he been walking? He’d lost count of the splashes.

When he’d opened his door—as well as his heart—to her a year and a half or so ago, she’d told him how she’d found herself in the Upside Down. She’d somehow been, for lack of a better term, “teleported” there immediately after she’d disintegrated the Demogorgon or whatever creature had been in one of the middle school classrooms. Then El had wandered the hallways of the otherworldly school, alone and scared, looking for an exit…

That was what had been on Hopper’s mind for the last few moments. He had no clue what had happened to him—he was running toward the gate, and then the machine exploded, and then…he was here, and not entirely sure whether he’d made it through the gate or if he was… _what?_ Dead? At death’s door? No, if he were, surely he would have been reunited with his little Sara. Unfortunately for him, unlike El, he hadn’t found the slightest rift yet. Hadn’t found anything, really. He knew he wasn’t in the Upside Down, but he had hoped he could get out of this black hole the way Eleven had described her escape. It sounded easy enough: she’d slipped out of a broken hole through the fluids and slimy tissues like a newborn exiting their mother’s womb. It didn’t sound nearly as appealing, but he couldn’t wait to be born again.

There was one thing he didn’t get. Well, no, scratch that; he didn’t understand _any_ of his current situation. Still, there was one thing that seemed off. Just before the blast, in the real world, there had been Russians next to the laser. So if he’d been…teleported here, where had all these commies gone?

After walking more steps than he’d cared to count, a faint light of hope shone his way. A chair. A fucking chair. Wooden with metal legs. As plain as chairs came. He barely believed his eyes when he saw it in the near distance. He turned around, looking for someone. Disbelieving. Was this a joke? But as he got next to it, he felt the hard wood under his palm.

He sat down heavily and exhaled a long breath. He looked to his right. Then to his left. Still no one. He looked at his feet in the water and rose his knees. _Drip drip drip…_ He got out of his shoes. The socks went too. He tossed them all away. What good was it to use shoes anyway? He looked at the arches of his feet. The skin was white and wrinkly. He lowered them again and leaned back against the chair.

On second thought… He furrowed his eyebrows to himself in defeat, sighed, and did the only logical thing that came to mind: he outstretched his legs and lifted his feet out of the water. It wasn’t comfortable, not even close.

As he let his feet dry—or at least he let their skin assume its normal appearance again—he allowed his mind to wonder a how it would have been if he’d been transported to the Upside Down.

If he hadn’t found an exit, he could have walked to Joyce’s house. Maybe she’d have found a way—through her light system?—to communicate with him; it would have let her know he was still down there if she hadn’t figured it out already.

After Eleven had vanished from the classroom, Mike had come forward to the police station on multiple occasions. Mike told him that she’d vanished away into thin air and ashes, and that Hopper ought to look for her. Of course at the time the chief hadn’t gone to investigate. For one, he felt—righteously—guilty; he’d been the one to disclose that Eleven was at the school. Not to mention the papers they’d made him sign. And two, he’d soon enough known about her whereabouts; she was safe and taken care of with him. For Will’s and El’s sakes there had been nothing to investigate about.

Now Hop wondered if Joyce or anyone had noticed that he’d disappeared without a trace—at least he assumed he had—just like El had in the past. If someone would go to the station and demand a search party. He had to assume that El’s incredible abilities weren’t back yet. But maybe Joyce could sense his presence if he could make it to her house. But how could he from this black hole?

“You were the one who didn’t take facts at face value when everyone else did, Joyce. Would you do it again?” he heard himself say out loud. “For me?”

_“I need you to believe me. Please.”_ He could still hear her plea now. _“Please,”_ she’d whispered a second time, desperate.

Hopper realized that in spite of Joyce having proved her amazing _sixth-sense_ instincts several times, he’d once again let her down when she’d started talking nonsense about the magnets. Except, once again, it hadn’t been nonsense at all.

“I’m sorry, Joyce,” he said out loud again. “I’ll be a better listener next time. I promise.”

He swept a gaze around at his surroundings, at this off-kilter world bathed in darkness, this huge nothingness. Trapping his broken lower lip between his teeth and sucking the blood out of it, he realized he was thirsty. And cold. And tired. And uncomfortable. And disoriented. _No shit, Sherlock._

He hugged himself in a futile attempt to feel better.

“You hear me, Joyce?” he said again, the words swallowed fast in the void like he imagined they would had he been in a soundproof room. “I’ll be a better listener, and not solely regarding this freak show,” he added bitterly.

“I hear you, Hop,” a strangled feminine voice wheezed through the air. He’d recognize this voice anywhere.

He whirled around and around, trying to find her. “Joyce?”

She was nowhere to be seen. He got to his feet, sinking them in the cold water again, and kept searching.

“Joyce!” he called, cupping his hands around his mouth.

There was only silence.

He’d probably imagined it. She did sound ghost-like. Exhaustion and lack of sleep and food and water were playing tricks on his ears or mind or whatever.

However, when in Joyce’s stead, men’s voices broke the eerie silence—voices that his inexperienced ears could only recognize as being Russkies’—he took it positively: he was better off taking his chances with humans, however hostile, for the time being than being alone or with whatever creature populated the Upside Down. Plus, if these men were to spot him and to trust his outfit, he was one of them. As long as he kept his mouth shut.

He spotted the dark silhouettes in the distance to his right and began to follow them.


	5. July 7th, 1985.

##  **Sunday, July 7th, 1985.**

As she veered right into the next street, exiting downtown, Joyce glanced at a tall and strong blond man on the sidewalk. She had to slow the car, pull over, and look back through the open window to make sure it wasn’t him. When they’d discharged her from the hospital this morning, she’d had to do a double take toward a man whose rich deep voice sounded just like his. And then she’d crossed paths with a young fellow whom, although he looked nothing like Hop, wore the shirt Hop had been wearing for the last couple days.

When Hopper wasn’t in her every thought, she saw him everywhere she went. There was an almost constant ringing in her ears, and if she were to believe the old wives’ tale it meant that someone somewhere was talking about her. She didn’t have to wonder too long to decide who that person was. She wished she knew the ‘somewhere’ part though. At this rate, she’d go nuts.

It had been different after Bob’s death. She’d had haunting nightmares at night, she’d cried now and then and still did when she remembered something they shared, like when _Cheers_ was on the other night and she relived the moment when she and Bob had watched it together, cuddling—but it had never been like this. Bob had never been everywhere she looked—however much she loved him and missed him. It was possible it was because she’d witnessed Bob’s—horribly violent—death. Or because she’d also had Will to care of and worry about back then. Her sons were both fine this time. At least there was that.

The only reason for Hopper being everywhere, the only reason she could think of was that he was still alive, and trapped, and calling out to her. Sending her a message: help.

Owens hadn’t found any trace of Hopper either. He’d told her so just the night before. He’d assured her that the gate was closed, the laser destroyed. Although Owens had said all this gravely, as if that was a terrible thing, she’d taken it as good news. Good _enough_ news that she hadn’t even talked to him about becoming Eleven’s legal guardian.

She thought about how distraught Hopper had been lately, about how Mike and El’s relationship had somehow managed to alter the way he acted with Joyce. His constant passive aggressiveness toward her, his openly insisting on, granted it wasn’t worded out loud as such but still, a date. She liked stability and while she’d been hesitant about him six or so months ago—even before, she’d almost kissed him right after she’d rescued him from the Upside Down tunnels, she’d caught his face with both hands and stopped herself at the last second, and Bob had been right there beside them—but his recent attitude had been sort of a turnoff for her. Only now she realized it had been completely out of character. Now she regretted she hadn’t had that heart to heart. That she hadn’t interrogated him to make sure there hadn’t been something deeper, other than the trouble caused by his daughter growing up.

And as she reached his cabin, she really hoped to hell that said daughter would be there.

The porch steps creaked under her light weight as Joyce called out El’s name. The door opened instantly.

“El,” Joyce breathed as she stood in front of the girl. She was wearing her dad’s iconic brown hat. With a weak smile, Joyce reached out to her but let Hop’s precious girl take the first step toward her. Eleven took a step forward and hugged Joyce hard and fast— just long enough for Joyce to breathe, “I’ve been so worried…”—and then released her and walked inside without a word.

“Do you mind if I come in?” Joyce asked before El was out of sight.

El simply shrugged.

Joyce nodded, and out of habit checked behind her before she followed the girl inside and closed the door.

The cabin was a mess, wooden ruins of a house really. The kids had said something about what had happened in here the day before yesterday, but she had so much on her mind that she’d forgotten exactly what. There was a gaping hole partly in the roof and through the walls, debris everywhere, significant signs of struggle. And there also were boxes on the ground and couch. Those were neatly lined up.

“Have you been sleeping here, honey? Last night?”

Eleven looked up at her, and again Eleven’s answer came wordlessly in the form of a nod. Joyce looked at the hole again. Thank god it was summer.

Joyce crouched on her heels opposite Eleven. She was skimming through papers and old records and photographs. Joyce lay a gentle hand on Eleven’s to make her pause.

“Honey…”

Eleven barely acknowledged her.

To catch the girl’s gaze, Joyce used her index finger to lift up the rim of Hopper’s hat. “Honey, look at—”

The girl’s reaction wasn’t what she expected: she leaned backward, out of reach, and stared at her with gritted teeth.

“El, what’s going on?” she wondered out loud, barely higher than a whisper. “What are you looking for? You know you can talk to me, don’t you?”

Eleven was still, as silent as a rock. She reminded Joyce of when she’d first met her, although even then she’d uttered some “Yes,” “I’m sorry,” “I can find them” here and there. But she’d had that same fragile and cautious stare. Joyce caught sight of an old photograph of Hopper and Diane and their daughter Sara, neither of whom she’d ever met. A smile curled up her lips and she carefully took the photo for a closer look. She lifted her gaze back to Eleven and handed her the picture.

“That’s his ex-wife and daughter,” she explained.

“Sara,” Eleven said softly as she took the photo.

“Yes.”

Eleven sighed and dropped her hands to her lap, the photo still in her hands. When El tilted her face heavenward, Joyce saw her eyes pooling with tears.

“Honey…” she tried again, and this time, Eleven let her touch her.

Jonathan’s warning words echoed in her head. _Don’t give her false hopes. Don’t lead her to believe that her dad somehow miraculously made it. Just—don’t._ Then what was she supposed to say when she herself couldn’t believe—at least wasn’t a hundred percent sure—that he was gone? When she herself saw him everywhere she went?

_After Sara I saw her, too… And I heard her… I didn’t know what was real. And then I figured out that it was in my mind. And I had to pack all that away. Otherwise, I was gonna fall down a hole that I couldn’t get out of._

She’d argued then. But as she remembered his words, she wondered if it was grief now. But _no_ , she coached herself, Dr. Owens had confirmed that he’d found no trace of Hop.

“I miss him so much,” Eleven said suddenly as she dissolved into tears.

Joyce crawled toward her and gathered her close, letting her cry in her arms. “Oh, baby, I miss him too.” The hat fell off Eleven’s crown and she pressed it against her heart while Joyce stroked Eleven’s curly hair. Tears stung her eyes, gathered like a raging flood behind her eyes, and she tried to keep them at bay, to ignore the emotion that welled up in her again, and maintain her even breathing. She felt Eleven trembling as she rocked her gently as if she could rock away her problems. She was at a total loss for words. A part of her agreed with Jonathan, and the other part wanted to hear the words clinging at the tip of her tongue as much as El needed them: _There’s hope, maybe he isn’t gone—but we have to act fast and I don’t know how to_.

Other innocuous words like “It’s gonna be okay,” “I’m right here,” or “It’ll get better over time” seemed futile and insulting her intelligence. Therefore she said nothing and listened to the girl’s pain. Her rib hurt in this position, but she wouldn’t move; she would stay like this for as long as El needed, and so she sat and kissed the top of her head now and again.

After a long moment, Eleven’s sobs quieted and she withdrew from Joyce who reluctantly let go.

“Mike came to my house this morning.” Jonathan’s voice won out. “He’s worried about you. We all are…”

Eleven nodded, her eyes bloodshot.

“Will you… Can you come with me and have lunch with us?” Eleven seemed hesitant. “Sweetie, you can’t really stay out here in the woods on your own. I know that you can take care of yourself better than any of us—”

“I can’t.”

Joyce frowned. “You can’t… come with me?”

Eleven shook her head. “I can’t…take care of myself if you mean using telekinesis.”

Joyce frowned again and cocked her head. Was she understanding right? “You mean you can’t use your, uh, powers?”

Eleven shook her head.

“Why not?”

The girl heaved a sigh. “I don’t know. They’re just gone.” She looked down at the boxes full of documents and picked up a somewhat recent photo of Hop in his uniform. “I try to see him, and I can’t… It’s not working.”

The orange-sized lump was back in Joyce’s throat and she felt her colors drain, her blood go cold. Did that mean Hop really was nowhere to be found—alive? She couldn’t ask the question, no matter how hard it tugged at her heart. “Sweetie, I’m so sorry…”

“It’s not just him,” El continued, a slight annoyance in her voice. “I can’t find anyone, can’t move anything. I’m powerless.”

That was how Joyce felt, too.

Joyce swallowed and breathed out a small sigh of relief in her mind. Okay, so it wasn’t just Hopper. “They will come back.” God, that sounded like a question, a plea even. “Don’t force it.”

“And if they don’t?”

She attempted a smile. “Then you’ll be an ordinary, kind and pretty girl:”

Eleven smiled faintly and then her face hardened a little. “Will you tell me what happened? To him?”

“I don’t know if it’s gonna be of any help, honey.”

“I need to know.”

“Can we go and have lunch with the boys first?”

Eleven wiped her face with both hands as though wanting to give herself courage, and put Hop’s hat on her head again. She nodded and then stared into Joyce’s eyes.

“You know… I’ve never told him I loved him…” Eleven whispered. Her lips quivered, but she’d somehow managed to stay dry-eyed.

“He knew, baby—he knew you did.”

“I still do.”

“And you always will,” Joyce assured her. “Come on, sweetie, let’s go.”

“Can I come back later?” Eleven asked as they reached the front door.

Joyce turned toward her and put her hands on her shoulders. “How about we ask Jonathan and the boys to try and repair this home a little?” El nodded. “But in the meantime, would it be okay if you slept in our house? Hop—Your dad—would have wanted that.”

Eleven wiped the corner of her eye with her finger and nodded, then went down the stairs and headed toward Joyce’s car.

_One step at a time_ , she thought.


	6. Chapter 6

If not for teaming up with Joyce—or “Detective Byers” as she’d liked to call herself in the last few days—having Murray by his side would have come in handy. Bald Eagle’s free translation services may not have been spotless or good enough for Hop and Joyce, but they were fucking convenient.

_The son of a bitch had come to me with a Russian conspiracy theory,_ Hop remembered. He had it wrong—from what Hop could recall Murray had then thought El was a spy, and Hopper had been too eager to go and check the rotten crops of a damn pumpkin field, thankful for the distraction—but Murray had been right about the Russians.

As Hopper tried to recall what he knew, it dawned on him how huge this whole Russian fortress beneath Hawkins had been. They may have built Starcourt in record time, but this underground base was so massive that it was hardly believable that it had been built and manned within a few months.

_No_ , he decided, _they started this thing well over a year ago—well before Murray first told me about his theory_.

He didn’t know whether mulling over everything that had happened was going to help him get out of here, but trying to put the jigsaw pieces together at least kept his mind occupied and put the twinge of pain he felt for El at bay.

_El_ … He recalled something else. One day, in their first months in the cabin, she’d told him how several times during her sensory deprivation tank sessions her “Papa” made her find some men and listen to them. She couldn’t understand their words, and he wondered now whether they’d been Russian. Whether this whole Russian thing had begun with Eleven as Murray had been led to believe. Whether Dr. Douche Brenner was involved. _I mean_ , surely he was, he’d been the one behind the experimentations on Eleven, but was he a traitor, too?

He also wondered whether this was what her experience had been like; she'd then talked about deep darkness.

Was this where he was? If he were indeed in this sort of in-between world, how had he gotten himself here? And more importantly, how would he get out?

Jesus, he wasn’t used to using so much of his brain. A Detective Byers would no doubt have been a plus right now.

The soldiers he was following from a good distance made a pause, exchanged a few words, and turned left.

Hopper had been trailing after them for a long time now and not only did they seem as lost as he was, but he couldn’t understand them. He was beginning to miss his chair. While playing James Bond, Hopper had spotted another group or two—maybe the same group twice for all he knew; they all looked pretty much alike—and he was beginning to wonder whether he wouldn’t be better off without them. But unlike them, he was unarmed, so if he were to cross paths with a beast… He sneezed. It wasn’t a big _Ah-choo_ , but it was enough to break the heavy silence.

The men turned around, darted toward him, their boots scattering water fast and furious around them, and one of them bellowed out something to Hopper that must have been words while all five soldiers aimed their guns at him in one swift, synchronized movement. A jittery blast of adrenaline blew down his spine.

“Nein!” he shouted, flinging his arms up in surrender. _German, perfect!_ The words had come out instinctively from his lips.

They barked something again and didn’t lower their weapons. That was all gibberish to him—how the hell did you say “No” in Russian? _Not “Nein” apparently_.

“American! American!” he shouted. “Don’t shoot…”

They thundered something in response. It was long and painful to hear.

Eventually Hop interrupted them and tried to appear calm. “Whoa, stop, it’s useless. You’re just giving me a headache. Seriously. I mean, come on, guys, I don’t understand a single word you’re saying…” He grunted. “Ugh…we’re all in the same boat here, so why don’t we just wave flags of truce and smoke the peace pipe and find a goddamn exit to get the hell outta this hell hole?”

The men looked at him funny.

“I’ll take a cigarette if you don’t have a pipe.” He lowered one hand to his mouth, connecting his thumb and forefinger and mimed it. “Smoke?” He looked to the non-existent ceiling. “All right, that’s enough,” he said. “This is the weirdest and longest dream I’ve ever had. But I know I’m dreaming now, so wake up, Jim; you’ll laugh about this over a cup of coffee and maybe contemplate its meaning.”

Two of them grabbed him by the arms and escorted him away as the small group started walking again through this hell of a dream.

“Okay, okay, I can walk…”

But he didn’t have time to realize that they wanted to drag him before he felt something sharp hit the back of his skull. Still, in the slightest second he spared before blacking out, he hoped he’d wake up covered with sweat in his bed.


	7. July 8th, 1985.

##  **Monday, July 8th, 1985.**

Eleven had agreed to spend the night with them, and Joyce had given her her own room. Jonathan had offered his room to his mother, but she’d thanked him and slept on the couch. Truth be told, she hadn’t been a hundred percent sure Eleven wouldn’t try to sneak out during the night.

But she hadn’t, and as Joyce slowly closed the door to her bedroom where Eleven was still fast asleep, she realized how exhausted the girl must have been. How they’d all been, both physically and emotionally. They’d have to figure out a way to accommodate everyone in the house—or another if she finally decided to sell—because the situation would most likely last a while, if not indefinitely.

She pushed her hair back and crossed to the kitchen where Will greeted her with a “Hi, Mom” and a hug.

“Made you some coffee,” he said.

“Thanks.” She sat down at the kitchen table and accepted the cup. “Where’s your brother?”

“He and Nancy went to the Post.”

“Okay… Why?”

“I don’t know. I guess there’s a lot to write about after what happened.”

Joyce nodded, approving, and took a sip of the hot drink. “What about you?” she asked after a pause. “Aren’t you going to meet your friends?”

“I figured I’d wait for El.”

“That’s nice, honey. She’d probably want that. And she’ll need as many friends as she get can right now.”

“I know…” he said, his gaze directed out the window. He slowly turned to his mom. “Powell’s parked just outside.”

She tapped a cigarette from the pack which rested on the table. Thinking of Deputy Powell visiting her gave her a quick pulse of fear that she forced down back inside of her. The lighter was slippery in her hand. Her thumb flicked three times before she could produce a flame. She pushed it into the tip of her cigarette and inhaled.

“Mom?”

“Yeah,” she murmured, feeling queasy as she stood, and hurried to open the door.

“Hey, Calvin,” she said.

“Joyce,” he said, tilting his hat down and then taking it off.

She pulled the door behind her, leaving it ever so slightly ajar. “What’s up?”

“I’ve got the Feds and the State police, the Marshall and everyone making themselves at home at the station. We’ve got twenty-eight dead so far, and two seriously injured at the hospital in critical condition. They want to close this mess as soon as possible.”

She wasn’t sure where he was going with this. “Okay…”

“They want to close the Chief’s case, too.”

“What?” If Powell was cautioning her against hope, he had something else coming.

“They’re ready to say he died in the fire.”

“But he’s _missing_. They haven’t found a body. Have they?”

“Not that I know of.”

“So they can’t do that… It’s been two days.”

“That’s their whole point. They’ve been everywhere and he was nowhere. They should have found him by now if he’d made it. I’m sorry. Really, it’s a mess. And that’s not even mentioning the media, too. The whole town is beginning to crumble and those vultures are here for the carrion—” He raised his hands in apology and fidgeted with his hat. “Sorry about the analogy.”

“God…”

“This Caitlin Schneiderhan from the Indianapolis Gazette for example, she’s all over the place, but especially after Phil’s ass.”

“Callahan?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Why?”

“I guess she’s his type, or—let’s get real—she’s ready to do anything to get someone on record…”

“But you’re not going on record, are you? I mean, come on, Calvin, there’s no body!”

“I know, Joyce. I know. We’re swamped by events, is all. There’s the Feds, the State police, the press, TV, the insurance companies, you name it. It’s crawling over there. I mean, you been in town?”

“Not since I got back from the hospital.”

“Sorry, I didn't ask. You okay?”

“I'm fine.”

He nodded. “I barely recognize my town.”

“So the Feds are here too?”

He shrugged. “Beats me. Anyway, I just wanted to give you a heads up… You meant a lot to the Chief, and I know you think a lot of him too.”

She smiled and touched his hands. “Thanks, Calvin.”

He nodded knowingly. “How’s the girl?”

Of course he’d know she was here. “She’s…like the rest of us… In shock.”

“Yeah,” he said uncomfortably, shifting from foot to foot. “I’d…” He trailed off, jerked his thumb over his shoulder, and put his hat back on. “I’d better get going…”

“Thanks for stopping by.”

“Take care.”

“You too.”

She closed the door and rested her forehead against it in an attempt to regain a semblance of composure. When she pushed away from the door and turned around, Will and Eleven were standing side by side, staring at her, their mouths open in shocking surprise and their eyes wild.

“He’s not—dead,” Eleven said firmly.

Joyce shook her head. “We don’t know what happened to him…”

Eleven suddenly seemed to remember something and started to move, turning back to Joyce’s bedroom—to get Hop’s hat, Joyce figured. “I have to go back home—”

“Honey…” Joyce pressed her eyes shut and massaged her temples with her fingers. “El, I’ll go to the station and see what’s going on…” She rushed after the girl. “But in the meantime, I don’t want you alone.” She turned to Will. “Will? You ready to go?” He nodded and Joyce turned to Eleven again. “I’ll drive you two to Mike’s. Hey, sweetie, sweetie, please look at me—” She stopped Eleven, and caught her face delicately in her hands. “I _will find out_ what’s going on. But I need to know you’re safe—”

“That’s what he said too,” Eleven interrupted her sharply.

“Who, sweetie?”

“My dad.”

Joyce’s shoulders sagged. “Oh… I’m sorry. I wish I could tell you otherwise. I wish I could tell you that we’ll find him, and that everything is going to be all right soon. But I can’t. And right now, I can’t be looking for you if something were to happen to you too.”

“Don’t ask me if I understand,” she said in a harsh tone again.

“Okay, I won’t. But will you let me drive you and Will to Mike’s. You know he’s been asking to see you.”

Eleven looked over at Will who nodded, and finally agreed.

“Thank you.” Still cupping the girl’s face, she brought her forehead to her lips and kissed her before releasing her. “I’ll just grab my bag.”

The shower would wait, and she’d probably carry a stinky smell after her all day. Like Hop had a few days ago—or at least she’d told him so because she’d been angry at him. Anger really made you do and say stupid things. She’d give her right hand now to smell his sweat.


	8. Chapter 8

Hopper woke up with what seemed like a violent hangover. His eyes peeled open, but neither blistering daylight nor an alarm going off was cause for his throbbing head. And when he flung an arm over his eyes in an effort to stop the ache behind them, the soreness in his back told him he wasn’t hungover. Or, admittedly, he could be. But that wasn’t the whole story. It wasn’t just his head that hurt. He hurt everywhere.

He slowly let his arm slide to his forehead and his head roll to his left so that he could look around.

He lay on a small cot. A green, military-like one, the kind they’d used in Vietnam eons ago. His head and his face hurt like hell. But that wasn’t the worst of it. The worst part was the unmistakable sign of where he was: little cotton-like dust floated in the air all around him.

He was in the Upside Down.

He shifted painfully on the cot, groaning as he swiveled his legs to come to a sitting position, and looked around.

It was a cramped room; a cell, really. There was a filthy mirror hanging over a small sink, a toilet, and a small portable oxygen tank at the foot of the cot. He had to guess it was oxygen at least, but there was no way to be sure.

Stunned, he ran his hands through his hair and rubbed his face as though that could help his memory. He felt the cuts under his palms and stopped. As he withdrew his hands from his face, he noticed his wrists and halted his hands midair, swaying them as he stared at them. He had marks around his wrists, but no memory of having been tied.

He pushed up on his knees and walked to the mirror. Slipping one hand in his sleeve, he wiped a little at the glass and stared at his reflection.

He had to grip either side of the sink, horrified at the person who looked back at him. He sighed, his head lolling down. His face was as bruised as he felt.

He remembered the Russians in the black hole. How had he gotten from there to here? He turned around, leaning against the sink as he tried to make sense of any of it.

_They left me oxygen,_ he mused, _how thoughtful._

He crossed to the door and jiggled the doorknob. It was open; he peered outside—a corridor.

_So, let me get this straight._ They’d knocked him out, found a rift, confused his face for a punching bag, and then decided to leave him here with oxygen? Did that make any sense? Not really… What was their endgame? Did they want him to die at the hands of an Upside Down creature? Was that why they left the door open? But then…why close it in the first place? So he got his beauty sleep? Doubtful.

He closed the door again and sat on the cot to try to understand. Granted, it wasn’t always easy to recognize your surroundings when you were in the Upside Down, but something told him the corridor outside that door wasn’t the alternate dimension of the underground beneath Starcourt. Call it a hunch. Things didn’t add up. First the black hole, then his beating, then this?

Something was amiss.

He picked up the oxygen and drew in a few breaths. _On the other hand,_ he thought, _how long can I stay in here?_

He got to his feet, and then shook his head and sat down again. _No_ , they wanted him to get out, so he had to do just the opposite: stay put. He felt like he was arguing with his inner, teenage self, each part of himself wanting very different things.

He stood again, pulling his sweater over his mouth and nose to save the oxygen when he didn’t feel it was downright needed, and started pacing. Several times, he found himself with his hand on the door knob before dropping it. He returned to his cot. To be careful and not to act stupidly had been one of their golden rules after he’d rescued El.

_“We don’t take risks. All right? They’re stupid. And…?”_

_“We’re not stupid.”_

_“Exactly.”_

Lying flat on his back, Hopper imagined her. His eyes open to the ceiling, he tried to picture her, staring right back at him. He slowly stretched out his arm above him. The memory was so vivid that he could still touch her. He cupped a palm to her face and caressed the baby skin of her warm cheek with his calloused thumb. Never mind that she was floating above him like a ghost. So what if it wasn’t real? He could still touch her.

“I miss you,” she whimpered, catching the hand he held on her face with her own.

He sucked in a breath.

He moved his head slowly up and down in acknowledgment and pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand, wiping the treacherous tears in the corners of his eyes. “I know, kiddo,” he whispered. “I miss you too, more than I could say.”

“When are you coming back?”

“I, uh— I don’t-I don’t know. As soon as I can.”

“Soon?”

He flinched at the memory.

_“You say ’soon’ on day 21. You say ’soon’ on day 205. You now say ’soon’ on day 326.”_

_“What is this? You’re counting the days now, like you’re some kind of prisoner?”_

_“When is ’soon’?”_

_“’Soon’ is when it’s not dangerous anymore.”_

_“When?”_

_“I don’t know.”_

_“On day 500?”_

_“I don’t know.”_

_“On day 600?”_

_“I don’t know.”_

_“Day 700? On day 800?”_

_“No!”_

_“I need to see him. Tell me!”_

Hopper needed to see her, too, and the heated argument replaying in his head took on a whole different meaning now that their situations were kind of reversed. More than ever, he wished he knew when ’soon’ really was and when he could see her.

“I hope so, kid,” he said simply.

She stared down at him, wrapping her fingers around the hand that cupped her face, and pushed it away.

“El…” he whispered in low protest, the thought of distressing her sickening him.

But she was already vanishing into a dark misty fog.

He slammed his fists at his sides against the metallic rails of the cot. “DAMMIT!” he shouted in anger, and the word bounced off the walls of his small cell.

He sat gingerly on the cot again, picked up the oxygen, and then got up and crossed to the door.

Frustrated, he exited his cell. That was probably acting stupid, but when your own rules didn’t work out, he guessed you had to make new ones.


	9. Chapter 9

“It’s like we don’t know how we lived before we had Starcourt,” Lucas commented.

“I do,” Will argued. “We played Dungeons and Dragons.”

“Yeah…” Dustin sighed as though that was the very last option to consider.

“Maybe they’ll reopen Hawk Theater downtown,” Mike offered.

“Yeah, but it won’t be free anymore,” Lucas complained.

Will, Lucas, and Dustin were sitting at the table in Mike’s basement. Mike and Eleven sat crossed-legged on the sofa. The general mood didn’t help their indecisiveness. Proof of said mood was the absence of Max. None of them knew how long it would take before they’d see her again. From what Lucas had understood, her family was preparing for Billy’s funeral. It would be in three days, on Thursday.

Eleven absentmindedly grabbed Mike’s talkie which lay on the carpet next to her. She switched the knob and put it down slowly in front of her legs. She closed her eyes as indecipherable static noises emanated from the device. After a moment when she admitted that once again she couldn’t find him, she opened her eyes.

Mike’s hand was on her knees. “They’re not back, are they?”

She shook her head and looked at him. “Why?”

“Do you remember what you were doing right before you lost them?” Dustin asked.

“She didn’t lose her keys, Dustin,” Mike said.

“No, it’s okay,” El said. “I was trying to move the car I’d flipped in the middle of Starcourt.”

“But you’d already lost them then,” Lucas offered.

“Not entirely. Remember, she used them to get rid of the Mind Flayer’s bit that was stuck in her leg later on,” Mike said.

“No,” Eleven whispered, her gaze lost in the memory of the night. She turned her face to Mike. “The car was after I’d gotten rid of that thing in my leg. It’s after the car that I was powerless.”

“She’s right,” Lucas said. “By then, Mrs. Byers and the Chief were gone—”

Will cut him off and finished: “And we’d tried to escape with Nancy’s car. Only then did we come back into the mall to this car because we needed the ignition cable.”

“Okay, so what did you do just before you tried to flip the car back on its wheels?” Dustin asked.

“I think it was just that: getting rid of the…piece of…blob…” She felt her face screw up in disgust.

“That must be it. Then when you tried to confront Billy on the staircase, he’d tossed you against the wall like he did Max and me, and there was nothing you could do.”

“You’ve always needed some time to recharge your batteries,” Will said encouragingly.

“But never two days,” she replied. “What if they don’t come back?” The question had been on her mind the whole time. Because it led to another question: _What if he doesn’t?_

“I’m sure they will,” Mike said, taking her hand and intertwining their fingers.

“What if the Mind Flayer being attached to you somehow sapped you of your powers?” Will wondered out loud. All faces turned to him and he raised his hands to humor everyone. “Okay, okay, we know that the Mind Flayer has the ability to absorb and take control of host bodies, the Flayed. It did it with me, then with Billy.”

“Okay,” El said, straightening up. She wanted to hear this. This, at least, was something they could work with.

“All right,” Will continued, “what if this is also the case with your powers? While the Flayer didn’t take control of your body, it’s very possible that it took your powers instead.”

Will looked around at his friends, gauging their reaction. He got to his feet and paced, thinking this through.

Whether that was what had happened to her or not, it didn’t tell her how to get her powers back. She needed inspiration more than observation and explanation.

“If the Flayer was being controlled from the Upside Down,” Dustin ventured, “then when your mom destroyed the portal it also cut the connection to the big spider blob monster in the mall.”

“And when they closed the portal, they also cut off Eleven from whatever stole her powers,” Lucas said with the easy logic of someone whose life hadn’t been torn into pieces.

Will held out his hand in a gesture that said he agreed with the theory.

“So…wait a minute…” Mike interjected. “You’re saying that in order to get her powers back, someone would need to open the portal again?”

Lucas shrugged as if to say he was sorry. “That’s a theory.”

“That’s crazy.” He turned to Eleven. “That’s _too_ crazy.”

“But that makes sense,” she said sadly.

“It does,” Dustin said, unenthusiastic.

Mike jumped from the sofa and faced them all. “No no no— I mean, maybe that’s a theory, but we need to consider other theories before we do something as irrational and stupid as this. Besides, without El’s powers we don’t know if we can open that damn portal, and even if we do, we don't stand a chance against what's in there.”

“That’s right too,” Dustin said.

“Or…” Lucas said.

“Yes, ’or’! I want to hear an ’or’!”

Lucas lifted his gaze to Mike. “Or there’s another portal somewhere.”

Mike gave him a dark glare that could surely kill, and then stabbed his finger in the air in Lucas’s direction. “No.”

A silence followed while every one of them tried to find another door—literally or not. El stroked her blue elastic wristband as if it’d help figuring things out. Granted, she’d suffered for the better part of her life to gain those powers, but she’d trade them any day for her dad. Except now, it seemed like they came in a pair; either she had them both back, or she had neither. Which meant she couldn’t give up on her powers unless she was ready to give up on Hop. That wasn’t the case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm away for a week so I posted a bunch of new chapters. While waiting for the next installments, don't forget to kudos and comment if you like this story, that's the greatest reward! :) Thanks for reading! See you soon! And thanks to my amazing proofreader, Michelle :)


	10. July 11th, 1985.

##  **Thursday, July 11th, 1985.**

Eleven had never been close to Billy in any way, but his funeral had been hardly bearable—somber and attended by so many locals, most of whom had probably never even exchanged a word with Billy. The Starcourt events had been a shock to everyone, and Eleven guessed that what with all that was going on in town, folks were trying to be as supportive as they could. Eleven ached not for her own loss, but for Max’s. The tolling of the bell still echoed in her memory, along with her friend’s sobs.

Eleven hadn’t been able to hold her tears inside. Though she felt Max’s pain, Eleven had also been filled with her own kind of grief.

It had been five days, five long days, since her dad had gone radio-silent, and she didn’t know how much longer she could go on without him, and feared that his visiting her in her dreams would end. If she could fall asleep until he returned, she would. In the meantime, she just bottled it all up and avoided Joyce’s and everyone else’s pity stares. She loved them for trying, there was no denying that, but it didn’t assuage her fears and grief, and she didn’t have the words to express her feelings anyway. She might have been mostly fluent with words now, thanks to Hopper’s patience, though he had never been the best teacher of heart to heart talks, and so there were still hidden places in both their hearts that they had yet to share with each other before she could open up to her friends.

During Billy’s funeral, Eleven had had the worst and creepiest thought: if they decided that Hopper was dead—as that seemed to be the case according to what she and Will had overheard when Joyce had talked to the deputy—would she and his colleagues have to carry an empty box before they lowered it into the gravesite? She wondered whether the not-knowing wasn’t worse, and decided it must not be. She could still cling to that hope, however fragile, whereas Max had only grief.

She banished the thought from her mind, and pictured the beautiful and colorful flowers that covered Billy’s grave. _Billy_ was gone, _her powers_ were gone; _not_ her dad. Hopper had been de-materialized in a vast underground Russian facility, and he was, as Joyce sensitively put it, missing. _And missed._

After the funeral, Eleven had insisted on returning home. She’d meant her home, and alone, but Will had been wanting to leave too, so Joyce had packed them up in her car and was now driving them to her house.

At one point, Eleven fell asleep on the drive back, and his scratchy face swung by again in her sleep.

He and a bitchin’ Eleven were in his Blazer, the imperfections of the road making them gently bounce up and down. It was night. Salty tears were pooling in her eyes, blurring her view. She reached her hand out to his for comfort and he squeezed it and held on to it.

_“I’ve been stupid too.”_

_“I guess we broke our rule.”_

_She smiled and nodded. He chuckled._

Like a time traveler knowing what to expect next, Eleven anticipated him gently letting go of her hand—which he did— to then wave vaguely at her while he commented on her new outfit. _I don’t hate it, by the way. This whole…look._ But he didn’t do that. Instead, he squeezed her shoulder and grabbed the wheel again.

“Learn the rules, break the rules, make up new rules, break the new rules, kid,” he said quietly, glancing back at her.

Eleven jolted awake, her whole body coming to sit upright with a start as though there’d been an impact. She inhaled a long gulp of air, her eyes wide open, trying to grasp something in the car, as well as to hold on to any remains of this dream as Joyce was parking in front of the house.

“What is it, honey?” Joyce asked, looking at her through the rearview mirror.

Eleven stared back, unblinking. That last bit from her dream…it wasn’t a memory. She tried to remember it. Hop had been at the wheel and he—

Eleven dashed to the kitchen, found a blank sheet of paper from the pile of Will’s drawings and a pencil, and wrote the words:

_Learn the rules, break the rules, make up new rules, break the new rules._

“What are you trying to say?” she whispered into the air. “That I should take risks? Act stupid?”

“El?”

“Jesus!” she exclaimed.

The choice of word—one of Hopper’s favorites when startled—wasn’t lost on Joyce. The woman furrowed her brows and then asked, “Who are you talking to?”

“I— No one— I just fell asleep in the car and had a dream. I was trying to remember it.”

“You want to talk about it?”

“Um…no, no, I’m…okay.”

“Or talk about Max or Billy?”

Eleven shook her head. She folded the piece of paper and put it in her back pocket. She was about to go outside, to the bathroom, or anywhere else where she could be alone and think, when the loud _bang_ of the front door forcefully shutting made El and Joyce jump.

“I can’t believe it!” Jonathan shouted, sounding utterly upset.

“What’s going on?” Joyce asked, her voice already worried.

He stomped into the kitchen in a few long strides, storming past Will, and slammed a folded newspaper on the table. It was the _Journal Tribune_ , and the big headline on today’s edition read Scandal Rocks Small town.

Joyce, Eleven, and Will bent over the journal while Jonathan paced behind them like a lion in a tiny cage.

_Hawkins Indiana. Smoke rose for what seemed like miles into the gray sky last Sunday when a deadly fire blanketed the Starcourt Mall’s West entrance. Locals gathered behind yellow caution tape peering over the army of police and fire response vehicles scattered across the parking lot._

_Starcourt, a once-bustling new mall for this small town, is gone and with it the town of Hawkins’ respect for local government. “It’s been a rough two years for Hawkins. First the disappearance of that little boy, and now this,” says local townsperson Dean Zimmerman._

“They’re covering it up!” Jonathan said, smacked his palm onto the paper, and Eleven focused on him—she’d read enough. “They’re covering it all up!”

Joyce turned to her son and leaned her butt against the table. “That surprises you?” she asked in genuine wonder.

“No!” he said harshly, and then calmed down a little. “I’m just mad because it’s a mess at the Post and with only Nancy and me—it’s kind of hard to get back on track and get our stories right and go through all the publishing process.”

“No one else showed up?”

He shook his head. “No. I told you, they’re all—” he raised his hands up and air-quoted the next word “— _missing_. They should have thought to check up on the blood at the hospital before they mopped the puddle of viscera off the floors with god knows what. At least they’d have scratched Tom Holloway and Bruce Lowe off of the missing persons list.” He turned around and shot toward the hallway. “I’m going to pack.”

Joyce turned to him, alert. “Pack? Where are you going?”

“Nancy and I are going to Murray Bauman’s,” he shouted from his bedroom.

“Um…” Joyce said, hesitating, then she called back: “He may have moved away. Hop, he-he kinda compromised his place.”

Jonathan came back from his room and slung a duffel bag on his shoulder. “We’ll find him,” he asserted as he reentered the kitchen quickly to kiss his mom. “I’ll keep you posted. You take care, guys,” he added to El and Will.

Shortly after Jonathan’s departure, Eleven walked out of the Byers’ house. She could have asked Joyce for a ride or borrowed Will’s bike, but she needed the air. It didn’t matter where she went. She’d aim for her home, but wherever she ended up, walking alone gave her time to think.

Break the rules. What rules?

She listed them in her head—the ones Hopper had set on their first days together and that she still remembered by heart.

Rule #1: Always keep the curtains drawn.

Rule #2: Only open the door if you hear my secret knock.

Rule #3: Never ever go outside alone, especially not in daylight.

He probably wasn’t referring to those old rules. Then there’d been new rules set after she’d officially become his daughter. _Respect curfew. Don’t visit places with too many people_ —that included the Starcourt Mall; she’d clearly failed him. Exhibit B for bad daughter and Exhibit I for irresponsible.

_Learn the rules, break the rules, make up new rules, break the new rules._

Granted, she’d broken most of his rules. Which ones was she now supposed to make to get back to him? Do something stupid? Put herself out of the safe slash comfort zone he liked her most to stay within? If that was the case, there were two places that sprang to mind. Either the lab or the mall.

But with no special abilities, she needed a plan. Weapons. And backup. Did the new rules include putting her friends in danger, too, or was there someone else who could help?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The rule quote is from Marvin Bell, in The Writer’s Chronicle, 2002.  
> Also, do we talk about that fact that Dean Zimmerman quoted in the Tribune article is a film editor for the series?


	11. November 12th, 1983.

##  **Saturday, November 12th, 1983.**

Eleven’s powers were on the farther side of anything he’d ever dreamed possible, Brenner thought as he found himself face to face with the enemy. How she had managed to accomplish such an outstanding trick was beyond his understanding; she had surpassed his wildest fantasies.

He smiled; there was a seriously twisted sense of poetry to this: he’d allowed her to reveal her true potential to spy on the Russians, and she’d sent him to check in on them on his own. Return to sender. Had she grasped what she was doing back then? How dangerous it was to send him here? What an incredible subject she was… He had to find her again and pursue his work.

But first, he had to return to the US. And as he stood with his hands up against half a dozen rifles, he had to stay alive. He neither spoke nor understood the Russian language, he carried no weapon, and his right arm was bleeding through his torn suit—courtesy of the creature which had tackled him in the school—so he hoped some of these facts advocated for his unthreatening intentions.

“American,” he said calmly. “Do any of you speak English?”

They shouted something again, and Brenner understood from their gestures that they wanted him down on his knees. He did as shown and twined his fingers above his head. Maybe telling them he was American hadn’t been the best move, but he imagined hiding it from them would be worse. Saying upfront he was American was telling them he wasn’t here to spy on them.

He looked around. They were in a cold hallway. Similar to the ones you found in hospitals—or labs like his very own. There was a room nearby but the door was closed.

A lab-coated man approached, and the soldiers parted to let him through. He was probably close to seventy years old; white, short gray hair with sideburns that almost reached his jawline, piercing blue eyes, 5’7, 190 pounds. He looked Brenner up and down before he put his hands in his pockets and spoke with a strong accent.

“What are you doing here?”

_What am I doing here…?_ Very good question, indeed. If Eleven was as smart as he thought she was, this man was a doctor. To be more precise, if she had a sense of humor, this man was the kind of doctor Brenner was. So what should Brenner say?

Before Brenner could answer, the deep snarl of a beast snapped his mouth shut. He turned around at the same time as all rifles redirected toward the origin of the cry. It was _it_. The same creature he’d seen coming out of a wall at the school in Hawkins. Could it be a coincidence? Hardly. Brenner got up slowly, transfixed by the faceless monster, and went to stand behind the line of shouting soldiers.

“What is it?” the Russian doctor asked.

“Trust me: run,” Brenner said, and lunged for the closest door.

The doctor gave the soldiers what sounded like an order, pointing at the creature, and followed Brenner in.

The sounds of combat began echoing from behind the closed door. Intelligence forgotten in the instinct to kill on one side, to survive on the other.

“You know what that monster is, yes?”

Brenner turned to face the man and studied him. In the Russian’s eyes, he didn’t see only fear. He saw fascination.

“I first assumed it was just the product of a young person’s imagination…” Brenner started, recalling how Eight had harnessed her ability to affect the minds of others. Brenner had first thought this monster was the same kind of illusion; that Eleven’s fears in the deprivation tank had taken shape into reality in the form of that nightmare of a beast. And maybe she had. But if that was the case, then, unlike Eight, Eleven’s mind creations weren’t harmless. This monster could kill and it most certainly did.

“You didn’t just walk in here through the door, did you?” the doctor said, cutting through Brenner’s thoughts.

Brenner stared at him. The fact that the doctor was open-minded about such a possibility was enough for Brenner to confirm what kind of doctor the man was. He was one of his kind: the kind who exercised minds to expand their potentials, hone their skills. Maybe that was Brenner’s ticket to salvation. If he could tell that man just enough—as well as learn some of the Russians’ achievements—maybe he’d be able to return to Hawkins and continue his work with Eleven.

“I’m Dr. Martin Brenner,” he said, extending his hand to his peer.

“ _Vrahch_ Viktor Yakovich,” he replied, shaking hands.

The snarling and grunting and gunshots recessed and then died down abruptly in the hallway. Yakovich dropped Brenner’s hand to open the door.

Yakovich exchanged a few words with the men in the hall and then turned to Brenner, a satisfied smile on his face.

“We have captured your creature. My men will now take you to your…accommodation for questioning.”

“Wait, it’s not _my_ creature,” Brenner argued calmly as two men grabbed hold of him.

Yakovich ignored him, said something else in Russian, and a soldier nodded.

“I told them to call a doctor for that wound,” he said, pointing at Brenner’s arm. “You’ll be given food and water, and then I can only advise that you answer their questions honestly. Erik, our interpreter, will be with you shortly.”


	12. Chapter 12

Hopper hadn’t been cold in a while. It wasn’t _that_ cold, but it certainly wasn’t the kind of temperature you’d expect in summer—not unless you lived in Alaska or Michigan and it was “one of those days.” So, either several months had passed or he wasn’t near Hawkins anymore. The Rocky Mountains came to mind, too, as a possibility, or some other mountains…and one thing led to another and he tried to remember what he learned in Geography class… Could he be in the USSR? Were there high mountains there which would explain how cold he felt?

After he’d gone out of his Upside Down cell, he’d wandered endless corridors leading to endless corridors, sometimes leading to caged stairwells. He’d felt like he’d fallen into the intestines of a beast, filled with Milky Way-ish air, silent save for the soft snore of a small breeze. He’d tried the control room of this alternate godforsaken dimension of the compound to no avail; all electronic equipment had been rendered useless either by the blast or by however long the room had sat there purposeless. He’d bet on the latter. At the time, it hadn’t really occurred to him that the control room looked different from what he remembered—he’d figured his memory was jammed—but now something clicked in his brain…

It hadn’t been the control room in Hawkins where he’d seen Joyce last.

Was he in a Russian Upside Down? How?

_All right, let’s say you are, indeed, in Russia… Nah, you’re delusional, Jim… But, okay, let’s pretend you aren’t_. That could only mean one thing: it wasn’t a random gate; it was a _gateway_. He’d gone through a fucking gateway. When he’d stood in the ray’s beam, he’d ended up in front of an identical laser. It was absolutely fucked up, crazy, irrational, call this theory what you like…but it made sense. Somehow. If he were nuts, he could still try and sell the story to Hollywood. _Imagine that, pass through a gate from one place and exit in another country._ They _did_ sell a script about some guys traveling through time after all—and _that_ was, if not crazy, completely farfetched.

_A doorway,_ Hopper realized.

Alexei himself— _may he rest in peace_ —had been talking about a doorway. That was Murray’s translation anyway: _a doorway between worlds_. But Hopper knew that Murray’s Russian was approximate, and the United States and Soviet Union were, in fact, two worlds apart. That could be it. What’s more, Alexei said that the Key they used to “break through a barrier to open a doorway” was only half the equation. Location was the other half. The more Hopper thought about it, the more it made sense.

He had this weird sensation, an odd feeling like when you remembered something and didn’t know whether it was a bad dream. But felt too real to be one. Something about the situation didn’t sit right with him. It was only snippets. Nothing concrete. When the Russkies had surrounded him, for instance. He recalled the welcome committee which had been anything but. The blurry memory did nothing to calm his jangling nerves.

He tried to collect his thoughts. They were an unruly, unreliable bunch. His skull felt like a snow globe recently shaken, swirling with important bits of information that had yet to fall down. And what frightened him most was that in the Upside Down, those floating snowflake-like bits never landed. His brain was clouded with confusion.

The past few hours or days had been so strange it bordered on surreal.

But something clicked in place. This particular memory. It had been out of place then.

_Think._

_Assess the situation._

When the Russians had captured him, he hadn’t been in the black hole, the Void, or whatever he was calling this place. He’d been in an earthy wide room. A warehouse of some sort. His back to a concrete wall. His front toward a laser and half a dozen soldiers. And the air sustained no Upside Down dust residues. His feet hadn’t been soaked in water. When he’d raised his hands up, he’d been too stunned to utter a word—and certainly not joking about the peace pipe.

_Oh, Jesus_ , he realized; he was in the USSR, he remembered now. Yes, he only remembered now because that memory had been taken away from him. Nothing was logical about it, yet that was the only logical explanation. And if he was recovering a repressed memory, it meant he’d been drugged. Was he still? And what’s worse, what other memories had been stolen from him?

He looked around. He was in a cell. The same cell where he’d been before, but on the upper, right side of the ground. Where he didn’t need a portable oxygen tank. Where his cell was locked he realized as he tried to pry the door open.

He went to sit on his cot. His head in his hands, he forced his mind to visit the places he most didn’t want to lose. Sara. El. Joyce. Hawkins. He sighed and lay down.

When Joyce had saved his sorry ass, following the little cigarette bits he’d carefully left behind him like Hop-O’-My-Thumb—pardon the pun—she’d shouted his name but he hadn’t heard her, although she’d been in the Upside Down herself. This time there had been no time to leave clues behind. Yet, he wanted to believe she trusted him to be alive. He relied on her sixth sense. He’d take her voice nonetheless, even if it were only in his head. At least that kept her alive there.

After however long he’d been on his own, he’d gotten accustomed to seeing and interacting with his loved ones—El or Joyce mainly—but he didn’t think he’d ever get used to the moment they disappeared.

He paused, his eyes fixed on the leak-stained ceiling as he listened to the quietness that now enveloped him, giving the silence a few beats. Enough beats for the insanity to set in, one of the idiosyncrasies of a prison cell. He felt a pulse of exhaustion behind his eyes, countered by a spurt of jagged energy that wouldn’t let him stay still.

He wound his face toward the door and jumped to his feet. Dashed to the door, and then pounded his fists against it. “Open up! Open the door! OPEN THIS FUCKING DOOR!” When there was no reaction, he did it again. “WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?’ And again. And again. Until his fists hurt and he felt blood running down his wrists and forearms.

He heard the scuff of a footstep behind him before he heard her say, “We’re not giving up on you, Hop.”

He whirled around. “Joyce…” He bent down, injured hands on his knees in an attempt to catch his breath and calm his pulse.

“Give us a bit more time. We’ll find you.”

He straightened up and braced against the door, a faint smile on his face. “Patience really isn’t my forte.”

“I know,” she said, managing a weak smile.

“Doesn’t El know?”

“Know what?”

“That I’m here?”

She shook her head slowly and crossed her arms across her stomach, shoulders rising, as though she were cold or sorry. “No… She, uh, she can’t look for you—she’d have found you already otherwise.”

“And you?”

“What about me?”

“Why are you here?”

“I…” She tried to smile. It looked like a grimace. “You know I’m the skeptical one.”

“Does she know I’m alive?”

Joyce sighed and went to sit on the cot. “She questioned me. Wanted to know what had happened.”

“I’m sure she did,” he said with a soft smile.

“You know what she asked?”

Hopper shook his head.

“Whether I’d _actually_ seen you die.”

He closed his eyes and rested the back of his head against the cold door, sticking his hands in his back pockets as he inhaled long and slow through his nose.

“I told her ‘No’, Hop. I told her how my eyes were closed to flip the switches, and then how I couldn’t find you.”

He crossed to her and sat perfectly still by her side. He covered her hand that clutched at the cot with his own. Unlike a few days ago, she let him.

“You need to have your hands checked.”

He’d put blood on her. “Sorry,” he said and withdrew his hand.

She grabbed one of his fingers, stopping him, and he stared at her as their hands rested back on the camp bed between them.

“By the time the Americans arrived in the compound,” she resumed, “there wasn’t a single Russian in the place anymore. There must be a door, an exit somewhere, Hopper—you can’t all have disappeared into thin air.”

“If there is, I sure as hell haven’t found it.” The word _yet_ hung heavily in the air between him and Joyce. “And now… Well, let’s just say things have gotten a little more complicated.”

Joyce sighed. “Hop—”

Hopper interrupted her in an attempt to lighten the mood. “ _But_ ,” he said, “I’ve been thinking about that too. There were a shit ton of Russians down there, remember? They would have benefited from some back door bypass of US customs, don’t you think?”

She frowned and narrowed her eyes. “You mean…? Like a giant tunnel that would go all the way back to the USSSR?”

Hopper chuckled. “Probably not. If there were a tunnel, this base would be in Alaska, not Indiana.” But since the Upside Down was a distant version of their own world, they wouldn’t even need tunnels. And with a gateway between the two countries… He heaved a sigh and rubbed his hair back and forth. “Eh, forget it, it’s just my mind going mad with all the excessive amounts of free time I have.” Some of that free time had been spent reflecting on his recent behavior toward both El and Joyce—too protective of the former and too possessive and hung up on the latter, he’d been a borderline abusive creep. “Borderline” optional. Not particularly charming.

Realizing that he’d just washed his hands in his hair, he stared at his bloodied hands and then got to his feet and paced slowly from wall to wall.

“Hop… There’s nothing I can tell El without giving her false hopes; I don’t know where you are. I don’t even know if you’re real… _But_ you cannot give up.”

He smiled and looked at her. “Ha! You don’t know if I’m _real_ , eh?” What should _he_ say about her? He lowered himself against the wall across from Joyce and settled there. He stuffed his hands in his sleeves so as not to paint his face with blood, and wiped his face.

“You know what else she asked me?”

Hopper slowly let his head loll back up to meet her eyes. “What?” he breathed out pent-up breath.

“She wanted to know if you could have had the time to jump through the gate before it closed. I couldn’t lie so I told her what I knew—not what I wanted to be true. I said I didn’t know, that it had seemed to be open only a few inches, and let her decide whether that was enough. El dreamily repeated the words, ‘Just a few inches…’ and then she asked, ‘How many inches?’”

Hopper chuckled, warmth gathering in his eyes.

“She chuckled too,” Joyce said.

He looked up at her. “That’s referring to what I told you about, about the constant argument I was having with her about keeping that damn door open when she was with the Wheeler kid—why you helped me with the letter.” He remembered the words he’d later written down but ended up never telling her about.

Joyce stood and kneeled in front of him, resting her hands on his knees. They stared at each other intensely a moment, and then she whispered, “Don’t. Give. Up.”

He nodded silently, burying his gaze into hers. For the longest beat, he remembered nothing about his predicament and just let himself wallow in those eyes. When she still didn’t avert them, he tentatively leaned forward, inches from her, never breaking eye contact. He could smell the faint perfume of soap on her skin. Her hands on his knees were enough to soothe him, but the scent of her suddenly so close made him feel dizzy, and he closed his eyes.

“What’s your soap scent?” he murmured, his eyes still shut. “Orange blossom?”

She didn’t respond. Instead, she closed the gap between them and delicately connected his dry and broken lips with her soft ones. It was the most delicate, warmest caress, but it sent his pulse skipping a few beats. Abandoning himself to the pleasure of her lips, a small moan escaped him and he cocked his head to the side for a better angle. He lightly swept his tongue between her lips, pressing his mouth to hers.

When he felt her hands grip tighter around his knees and she deepened the kiss, he gently and blindly reached out to hold her face, sliding his bruised fingers into her silky brown hair. To hell with the blood; the want for his lips on hers was all he could think of and it took all of his dogged self-restraint not to pull her onto his lap so that she straddled him, and he switched gears from tender to passionate and greedily wrenched her close. This was more than enough for him.

Still, he yielded to her gentle kiss. He wasn’t anything like the brute many assumed he was. Her lips parted with a moan—both of them failed to stifle the sighs that escaped their mouths—and he took the initiative to deepen the kiss, to let her know how much she meant to him.

When a feather-like breeze swept his face, he didn’t need to open his eyes to know she was gone.

He jammed his fists at his sides against the wall.


	13. June 29th, 1984.

##  **Friday, June 29th, 1984.**

Brenner had been first questioned—“interrogated” was a better word—then tortured, then submissive and somewhat cooperative. As far as they were concerned, anyway.

He’d soon realized that the best way to gain their trust was to share some of his knowledge. And that had been easy; when working on subjects’ minds, the Russian techniques were similar to his own—they used various methodologies to manipulate people’s mental states and alter their brain functions, including hypnosis, sensory deprivation, isolation, verbal and sexual abuse, as well as various forms of torture—so whatever Brenner shared wouldn’t allow them to make a huge leap on their research.

What Americans called parapsychology, the Soviets called “psychotronics.” Their work was built on a long-standing idea that the human brain could receive and transmit a certain kind of high frequency electromagnetic radiation and that this could influence other objects too. This “human energy” could change the magnetization of hydrogen nuclei and stimulate the immune systems of humans. Americans had come to the same conclusions. An interesting part, though, was a device the Russians called a “cerpan” that could generate and store this energy. Doctor Yakovich had been proud to show Brenner a scheme of transmitting and receiving bio-circuitry of the human nervous system, but Brenner hadn’t been entirely convinced. Their study on that particular matter was, at the moment at least, theoretical. Like MKULTRA, their program included a study of the effects of electromagnetic waves on humans and led to the development of psychotropic weapons—Yakovich had put the words differently, obviously—which were intended to alter people’s minds.

But their subjects were nowhere as young and promising as his own—and he’d had Eleven when she was just born. This, Brenner had kept to himself. Their subjects, probably unwilling, most likely unaware, were, if he were to trust what they were telling him, patients in psychiatric institutes; drug-induced comas weeks on end, while the repetitive sound of words and noise played out in loops. Similar to the U.S., the Russians experimented with mind-altering chemicals such as LSD to find out what effects they had on the mind.

The Soviets weren’t new to parapsychology. Brenner knew that. He remembered reading Leon Trotsky’s _Literature and Revolution_ when he was a student. He recalled the materialist insistence on the malleability of thoughts and emotions interspersed with a recrudescence of pre-Soviet superstition, a form of political sorcery owing more to Rasputin than Lenin, a belief that one person could “make it his purpose to master his own feelings, to raise his instincts to the heights of consciousness, to make them transparent, to extend the wires of his will into hidden recesses.”

He was free to go in the facility now. Had his own badge that granted him access to certain areas of the vicinity. It included access to the outside. But from there, there was nowhere to go. Not on his own. The Kamchatka Peninsula, in the easternmost Russian region, was a unique region—washed by the Sea of Okhotsk from the west and the Pacific Ocean from the east—a land of glaciers and volcanoes, rivers and lakes, the landscape intact and untouched. Unfrequented.

When the walls had shaken yesterday and he’d learned that it wasn’t from an earthquake or an eruption from a volcano nearby, he’d gone out of his accommodation and studied the men’s body language. He’d seen anger, frustration, and sometimes even fear, more than he’d seen determination or resolve.

Brenner had been the one to explain what the creature was they’d captured, where it had come from; he didn’t really know what they were up to, nor whether their working on a laser had anything to do with the monster or if it had been initiated before his arrival, but he imagined they were trying to pry open this other world. And if they were so eager to do that, maybe he could help. On his own conditions.

Brenner had had his chances with some Russian subjects, but he had yet to find an effective and discreet way to get back to Eleven. Through a mental connection first, then things would pan out easy enough.

He was a patriot. But his research was too important not to share some information.

He opened the door to his studio and peered outside. He’d asked Yakovich to join him, and he expected him to arrive soon.

The kettle whistled and Brenner returned to his small kitchen to retrieve it from the stove, the whistle slowly dying down. He took out two small glasses, spoons, sugar, milk, and his set of Wissotzky Tea bags.

A knock on the door, and Brenner called, “Come on in, come on,” as Yakovich was already letting himself in, closing the door behind him.

The two men sat down at the small table in the center of the room, and Brenner filled both glasses.

Brenner went straight to the point. “If you’re still willing to break through the confines of this world, I know of a location where the door is open. And I know how it opened.”

Yakovich took his glass, crossed one leg on top of the other, and said, “You have my attention.”


	14. July 15th, 1985.

##  **Monday, July 15th, 1985.**

“Okay, I’ll be right there,” Joyce said, and then hung the receiver on the wall-mounted phone.

She slowly turned toward Will who had initially picked up the phone, expecting a call from Mike, and was now waiting, a worried expression on his face.

“What did he want? Is everything all right?” he asked.

“Um, yes, yes,” she said evasively. She shook her head. “I don’t know actually. He wouldn’t say over the phone. I have to go to the station.” _And nothing good ever came out from “I think it’s probably best if we speak in person,”_ she thought but kept it to herself.

“That doesn’t sound too good.”

“Yeah, well, we’ll see. If you leave to meet with the gang, leave me a note so I know where you are.”

“Okay, Mom.”

“What are you guys up to?”

Will shrugged his shoulders dismissively. “Just hanging together.”

“All right,” Joyce breathed. She ran her hands through her hair, leaving them there a moment, and looked around. “Where’s El?”

“Showering.”

She lowered her hands and headed toward the door, grabbing her purse and fishing for her keys. “Okay,” she said. “See you later. Be good.”

When Joyce exited her house, she heard the phone ring behind her and paused an instant as Will answered it.

“Hey, Mike.”

It took Joyce ten minutes longer than it usually did to get to the police station. It was summer, sure, and there were always tourists at this time of year, but the mysterious goings-on in Hawkins had also made quite some noise and so the little town where once-upon-a-time nothing ever happened currently attracted loads of nosy parkers like magnets on a fridge. Apparently not all magnets had lost their magnetic field. As a result, there were more cars driving by than the small town could probably handle.

Parking had also become an issue. It surely meant Melvald’s was back in business. She’d only seen Donald the day after she came out of the hospital to tell him in person that she had a broken rib and that—doctor’s orders—she was taking a few sick days. She’d also used her visit to Melvald’s to grab the painkillers the doc had prescribed her. But her rib didn’t hurt so much anymore. Maybe it was time to go back to work and trust that the kids wouldn’t try getting into trouble.

Joyce parked a few hundred feet from the police station and walked her way there, shimmying through the crowd as some people she knew said “Hi.”

Flo greeted her warmly at the front desk, but her bloodshot, puffy eyes told a whole different story. She’d been crying. Joyce asked her what was wrong—an answer she feared she knew—but Flo simply told her that Calvin was expecting her and that she could go forward to Hopper’s office. Behind her, Callahan was on the phone, his back to Flo and Joyce.

Joyce nodded slowly and paused in front of the office. Just a plain wooden door, Hopper’s name had never been upon it.

She knocked and let herself in at Calvin’s “Come on in!”

“Joyce,” he said, sighing at the sight of her.

“What’s going on?”

“Have a seat.”

“Calvin—”

“Please, Joyce, just…sit down,” he insisted, sitting behind Hopper’s desk.

Joyce had never returned to Hop’s office, not since the first confrontation they had when Will went missing. She could still hear it as if they’d fought yesterday.

_“Joyce, ninety-nine out of a hundred times, kid goes missing, the kid is with a parent or relative.”_

_“What about the other time?”_

_“What?”_

_“You said, ‘Ninety-nine out of a hundred.’ What about the other time? The one?”_

_“Joyce.”_

_“The one!”_

She sat opposite Powell, took a cigarette from her purse, and lit it. Now it was Hopper’s turn to be that one other time. Her constant thoughts for Hopper and worries for El were all-consuming. She felt beat. But even though she may have been the only one out here to want to put on a brave face, she wouldn’t give up on him. She inhaled a long drag.

“So?” she pressed, anxious.

Powell sighed. “I’m sorry. We wanted to tell you this before it got out.”

“Before what got out?”

“Have you watched the news lately?”

“No. Our TV’s messed up since the big power outage.”

He sighed again, opened a drawer, and produced a folded newspaper. He handed it to her. “The case is closed.”

She took it feebly, reluctantly, and Hopper’s picture immediately caught her eye on the front page of the _Indianapolis Gazette_ ’s edition. She was about to inhale a drag of smoke but her arm was stuck midair. She scanned the desk rapidly for an ashtray but Hopper’s was gone. Powell put it back in front of her without her asking and she stubbed her half-smoked cigarette out in the now-immaculate, empty ashtray.

_Hero Chief Dies in Fire_

_Hawkins mourns the loss of Police Chief Jim Hopper, who perished in the line of duty on July 4th in the Starcourt Mall fire, which claimed the lives of at least thirty others. “He was a good man, he will be greatly missed,” says Deputy Phil Callahan. “There’s no doubt in my mind that he was doing the right thing and attempting to save someone in that fire. To me, he will always be a hero.”_

She looked at Powell, gauging his gaze. She didn’t dare ask the question she dreaded. She gathered her hands in her lap. There was no way around it, though.

“Have they found him? Is that…is that why you called? You need me to identify his body?”

He shook his head. “No. They haven’t found him.”

“No?” she asked, borderline threatening.

“No.”

She took the paper again. “They didn’t even have the date right; he went missing on the Fourth of July _weekend_ , not on the Fourth of July. Shall I tell Callahan to call his new friend so she can make the correction? It was on the Sixth of July.”

“Joyce.”

“What? What?” She was on edge. “What’s this bullshit? This is bullshit. What couldn’t you tell me over the phone?”

Powell bent down behind the desk and picked up a small cardboard box which he rested on the desk. When Joyce didn’t move to take it, he slid it toward her.

“What’s that?”

Powell gritted his teeth. “Open it.”

With a sigh of exasperation, Joyce pulled the box in her lap and unfolded the top flaps. She sucked in a breath when she peered inside.

“They found these items,” Powell said. She kept staring at the contents, her mind gone blank. “You were the closest thing of a friend to him, and, well, his girl is with you, so I figured you should have this, and this guy wanted—”

As Powell tried to explain the inexplicable, Joyce slowly, delicately pulled out the shirt Hopper had been wearing that dreadful night, and brought it to her nose. It smelled of sweat. “This is the shirt he was wearing…” She hadn’t meant to interrupt Powell.

“I’m sorry,” he said genuinely.

She then took the pants out. Both they and the shirt had fire marks as if they’d been partly burned but not enough to be unrecognizable.

“The US Department of Energy found it in one of the elevators in Starcourt,” Powell continued.

Joyce lifted her gaze to him. “And you don’t find that strange? Hopper—what?—decided to get undressed before he tried to ‘save someone’ like Phil seemed so eager to tell?”

“I know it makes no sense, Joyce.”

“That’s right; it _doesn’t_ ,” she snapped.

“Believe me; I know. I’ve been turning this in my head over and over again, but this is beyond us.”

“You said it came from the Department of Energy?”

“That makes no sense either, I know. But it came from a high-ranked guy, Dr. Owens. He was the one to suggest this box got to you.”

“Then why not give it to me directly?”

“I don’t know, Joyce,” he sighed. “Do you know him?”

“Yeah I know him,” she said in a daze. The only reason she could think of as to why not to her directly was this: _Case closed, but I’m on your side. Keep looking._

“We don’t have the resources to look further into his disappearance, Joyce, I’m sorry. We have other missing persons and—”

“Yeah, and those you’re referring to, like the Post’s staff, they’re dead. You’re wasting your time.”

“Joyce.”

She waved him off. “Forget it.”

She took the pants again and squeezed and felt the pockets with her hands until she retrieved Hopper’s wallet. She lifted her face to Calvin and he raised his hands in defeat.

“We opened the box, but didn’t go through its contents.”

She opened the wallet, revealing a recent picture of Hopper and Eleven. Jonathan had taken it for them at Joyce’s one night when they’d come to dinner. It had been just last June, on Father’s Day. With a mind of its own, Joyce’s thumb stroked Hop’s face while a soft, trembling smile made its way across her own face. Moving on, she found a folded piece of paper cut from a yellow legal pad.

“This is new,” she said.

“You’re sure?”

She nodded. “Pretty much.”

She unfolded it cautiously. On the note, the word “Wheelbarrow” was followed by a phone number. She gasped and turned to Powell.

“I need to use your phone,” she said urgently.

He sighed and pushed the telephone closer to her.

“I mean, I need you to get out.”

Joyce dashed to the door and opened it, inviting Powell to leave. But he didn’t move. He raised his eyebrows.

“Excuse me?”

“I need to make this phone call now,” she urged by way of explaining.

Powell stood up from his chair, but stayed behind the desk. “Joyce—”

“Now!” she stomped.

The deputy—was he still deputy, she suddenly wondered, or was he the new police chief?—walked round the desk and passed her, stopping in the doorway.

“This isn’t your office, you know,” he said.

“It’s not yours, either,” she snapped, and managed not to slam the door in his face. She considered buying golden adhesive letters to glue Hopper’s fucking name to _his_ fucking door—or her name. Hop should’ve pissed in every corner to mark his territory. The bastards.

She hurried back to the desk and dialed the number.

“I need to speak with Dr. Owens,” she said without preamble.

“What is your identification code?”

“Identification code, yes, right.” She lifted the paper to her eyes again. “Wheelbarrow.”

There was a small pause. Joyce held her breath. “I don’t have that ID code. Goodbye.”

“Wait wait wait! Don’t hang up!” She waved her arms in front of her as if her interlocutor was right there and she could actually stop him. “Um…try ‘ _Antique Chariot_ Wheelbarrow.’”

Another pause.

“Please hold the line, I’ll put you through to him.”

Joyce covered her mouth and she inhaled a breath of relief. She stuck the receiver between her ear and her shoulder and grabbed her purse from the chair. She lit another cigarette when a “Hello?” came through and she gripped the phone properly again.

“Dr. Owens?”

“Speaking.”

“It’s Joyce. Joyce Byers, from Hawkins.”

A slightest hesitation, and then: “Oh, hello, Joyce.”

“What’s going on? Why did you want me to call you?”

“I wanted to tell you something…” he said and paused.

_Well, obviously…_ “What?”

“There’s something you don’t know about this other realm you call the Upside Down.”

“That’s what my kids call it,” she offered, impatient. She inhaled her cigarette deeply, the glowing orange tip growing brighter and the ash lengthening. “Is this about Hopper?” she asked before breathing the smoke out.

“It is and it isn’t. There’s one thing I can tell you that we’ve discovered recently. In the Upside Down, time is expanded differently, it’s slower than we know it.”

Joyce wasn’t sure what to do with this. “Slower.” She took another drag.

“Yes. To understand it, picture air trapped into the barrel of a syringe. Push the seal midway, and the air there represents our metric time. Imagine it’s a plastic syringe without a needle, and you can apply your finger on the needle hub. Now, if you drag the plunger as if you wanted to remove it from the barrel, the air that you’ve trapped between the seal and your finger is expanding.”

“Okay…” she said softly, not exactly sure where he was going with this.

“On your syringe scale, you can see that one unit of the Upside Down time represents several of our universal ones.” He paused as if to allow her to let the information sink in. She tapped her cigarette against the side of the ashtray several times, even though there weren’t any loose ashes after the first tap, and then crushed the cigarette into the small receptacle, her hand slightly shaking. “That’s why your son could survive for over a week without food or water.”

“Maybe also how Hopper survived too when I found him tied by vicious tendrils last year.”

“Yes, although it’s my belief that to the one who’s trapped down there, time is irrelevant, and it seems very long regardless. Like I said, time stretches out.”

Joyce nodded to herself, agreeing. Then she asked, “Why are you telling me this? Have you found him?”

“No, I can’t say so. It’s…complicated.”

“Complicated….” she huffed. “Then why are you doing this? What’s the Department of Energy got to gain by telling me this?”

“We were compromised a few months ago, so now we’re on the lookout. Someone betrayed us. That’s really all I can tell you.”

“Betrayed you…? To the Russians?”

A sigh. “Yes. I’m…trying to set things right where I can.”

“Can you extract him?”

“Joyce…”

“CAN YOU EXTRACT HIM?”

“No.”

“Okay… Okay…” She took a deep breath. “It’s been nine days, say he were still down there, how long has it been for him? Are we talking hours, days…?”

“I’d say no more than two days, give or take a few hours. But again, that’s _metabolism-ly_ talking, so to speak. To him, it must feel like nine days, maybe more because he’s alone and nights and days are one and the same thing. I’m only telling you this because I’ve seen the news, Joyce, and I wanted to say that all hope is not lost. That’s really all that I can tell you.”

“Okay, thank you.” It did help on the hope part, but not nearly enough on the finding Hop one. “Eleven…” she said. “She lost her abilities. Can you help her get them back?”

“I wasn’t aware of that. I’m sorry to hear it. I can look into it, but I can’t promise anything.”

That was good enough for now, she thought. Dr. Owens asked in what circumstances that had happened, and Joyce narrated the course of events as best she could. When she’d finished, she said, “I need one last thing from you, and this time I’m not taking no for an answer.”

“Go ahead. I’ll see if it’s in my power.”

“Hopper told me he turned to you regarding Eleven’s—Jane’s—birth certificate.” Owens’s silence comforted Joyce that that was the fact. “I need you to do it again.”

“Joyce…”

“Listen to me! Now that Hop is dead, as far as the authorities are concerned, I need you to put my name next to Hop’s so that I can take care of her properly, so she doesn’t have to hide again.”

She heard him sigh on the other end of the line, and then he said, “I can be in Hawkins in two days. I’ll meet you at Hideaway on Wednesday. Around three? How would that work for you?”

As long as it wasn’t Enzo’s, it worked for her. “Thank you. Thank you so much. Do you…do you need my birth certificate or anything?”

“I’ve got this.”

“Thank you,” she repeated softly.


	15. Chapter 15

Joyce was just going out the front door when the phone rang again and Eleven exited the bathroom.

She heard Will pick up the phone. “Hey, Mike.”

The teenage girl wrapped the towel around her hair, a thing she’d never thought of doing before but that she’d become accustomed to by watching Joyce since she began to share the Byers’s everyday life.

“She’s…okay,” Will said. “As much as anyone would be in her situation.” A pause. “No, our TV doesn’t work since the blackout from two weeks ago. Why?” he asked into the phone and listened quietly to Mike’s answer. “Okay, we’ll be there as soon as possible. Eleven is currently in—” He turned around toward the hallway and El raised an unwavering hand at him and flashed him a tight smile. “Never mind. We’re on our way.”

After he hung up the phone, Eleven asked, “What’s going on?”

“It was Mike,” Will said as he went to sit on the couch and bent down to tie his shoes. “There’s been some development.”

“Development?”

“Yeah, I don’t know. From the sound of Mike’s voice, it doesn’t look good.” He stood up. “Are you ready?”

“Yes. Where are we going?”

“Mike said your place…because it’s closer to the mall.”

“The mall…”

“I don’t know, El,” he said with an ounce of sorrow. “Let’s go and find out.”

For the past few days, she’d tried to figure out what new rules she had to come up with, but, there too, she’d come up blank and had yet to ask her friends for ideas. She’d have to talk to them about that.

Minutes later, El hopped on Will’s bike behind him and he started pedaling toward Hopper’s cabin. When they finally arrived, they were greeted by Mike, Lucas, and Dustin, all standing still on Hopper’s porch, all wearing funeral masks. Their waving shallowly and downbeat “Hellos” didn’t do the trick.

Mike slowly climbed down the steps to meet El and Will halfway.

He took both of Eleven’s hands as they faced one another.

“What is it?” she asked in a whisper.

Mike didn’t reply right away, and Eleven immediately understood it was more serious than she’d thought. He looked over his shoulder as if for courage, looking toward Lucas and Dustin who were still statue-like, and then turned his attention back to Eleven.

“What’s going on? Say it,” Will pressed.

Mike glanced at Will, nodded, and stared at Eleven again. He took a deep breath, sighed, and then said, “They’re stopping the search.”

Eleven frowned and cocked her head. _What?_

“They closed your dad’s case.”

“What do you mean?” she whispered.

He huffed. “He’s not a missing person anymore. They say he’s dead. I’m so sorry, El…”

Eleven didn’t reply. Didn’t say anything. She was lightheaded. Her heart rate had slowed some and it boomed in her head. _Ba-dum…ba-dum…ba-dum…_ Her friends sounded like they were speaking through water. Inaudible. Unintelligible. A tightness in her neck. She craned it, tilting her face heavenward, and squinted at the July sun.

“Let’s go inside,” Mike said with a soft voice as he gently squeezed her hand and took her forearm for support with his other hand.

The stair steps seemed to have grown a few inches as she pushed herself up and toward the door with Mike at her side. The other boys waited till Mike and El had come inside to follow. The radio was playing softly from the living area—probably to catch the latest “development” whenever it came on. Mike sat Eleven on Hopper’s recliner. Lucas brought her a glass of tap water.

After a long moment, Will eventually ventured, “Mom had a call from Deputy Powell this morning. She went to the station ‘cause he couldn’t say whatever he had to say over the phone. Must have been about Hop.” He shook his head and suddenly crouched next to El. “But, hey, that doesn’t mean anything. Ever since that night, you’ve been telling us you felt he was still alive somewhere. Don’t stop believing.”

“He’s right,” Mike said.

“Besides, it’s obvious Mom is on the same wavelength you are, you know that.”

Eleven’s eyes were fixed on nothing—on the wall. She didn’t have the strength to move her gaze and it just lay there. Absent. She acknowledged what her friends were saying, but to her, it all felt like one step closer to the empty casket.

Mike waved his hand in front of her eyes. She blinked and turned to him.

“We have to go back there,” he said dead-serious. “It’s where it all started; your powers, and the chief—your dad,” he corrected.

“Yeah,” Lucas and Dustin agreed in unison.

“My sister told me how they went down there,” Lucas said. “I think I can find the way again.”

“I’ve been there, too; we don’t need Erica involved. And we’ve waited long,” Dustin said. “Steve said the army has finally left the vicinity. Time to take back the place.”

“El,” Mike said barely above a whisper. “Your dad’s coming back, right?”

She just stared blankly at him.

“The answer is ‘Right,’” he continued encouragingly.

“Yeah,” Dustin said. “They planted a fake body for Will, and I know, I know, it’s most likely not the same ‘they’ here but this time there’s not even a body. There’s no body, El. There’s hope.”

El drank a sip of water from the glass Lucas had offered her.

“What if…” Lucas started, lost in his thoughts, and then all at once brightened by a sudden idea. He looked at Dustin. “How do we know it’s not the same ‘they’?”

Dustin shrugged. “They’re Russians,” he said as if that was self-explanatory.

“But when El told us what it was like growing up in the lab, she said that she sometimes had to find people and listen to them.” He looked at El for confirmation. “Didn’t you?”

She nodded and whispered a small “Yes.”

“You also said that they spoke a foreign language—a language you couldn’t understand. Would you say it could have been Russian?”

El shrugged. “I don’t know. I— Maybe?”

“But they’re Russians,” Dustin insisted. “Why would Americans and Russians work together?”

“I don’t know. Maybe they didn’t. Maybe it started as a spying program and then somehow the Russians got the upper hand. Maybe the Russians had the same program and whether or not there was, maybe someone got greedy, had a better offer to switch teams, I don’t know.”

“Are you going somewhere with all this, Lucas? You know she doesn’t like to talk about that time,” Mike said.

“I don’t know, I don’t know,” Lucas replied in a tone that said “Don’t stop my reasoning,” and started pacing, looking for the answers at his feet. “But maybe— _maybe_ —it’s all connected. I mean, how would the Russians even _know_ about the Upside Down?”

“They knew about it all along. They knew about it before any of us did,” Mike said, grave, his eyes unfocused as the enormity of it hit him.

“Exactly!” Lucas exclaimed, turning toward Mike and snapping his fingers. “Oh shit…it’s all connected.”

As if on cue, “Russians” by Sting played on the radio.

“I’ve heard this song before,” El said.

Dustin leaned backward on his chair and cranked the volume up a notch.

_In Europe and America there’s a growing feeling of hysteria_  
Conditioned to respond to all the threats  
In the rhetorical speeches of the Soviets  
Mister Khrushchev said, ‘We will bury you’  
I don’t subscribe to this point of view  
It’d be such an ignorant thing to do  
If the Russians love their children too

_How can I save my little boy_  
From Oppenheimer’s deadly toy?  
There is no monopoly of common sense  
On either side of the political fence  
We share the same biology  
Regardless of ideology  
Believe me when I say to you  
I hope the Russians love their children too

Dustin shrugged. “It’s just about the Cold War.” He switched the radio off.

“That’s great,” Will said. “But how does any of that help Hopper?”

“I don’t, uh, know that yet.” Lucas looked at his friends, waving his hands as if conjuring ideas. “What else have we got?”

There was a silence while everyone tried to think of something.

“The lights,” Will whispered, and then louder: “I could communicate through lights with my mom when I was in the Upside Down.”

“Yes,” Dustin said, “you’re right. Except it’s not the lights themselves which did that. It’s the electricity. Remember the power outage shortly before that night?”

“Yeah, it killed my TV,” Will agreed. “You’re right: I manipulated electricity in our dimension.”

“Electricity is key,” Dustin said, and something switched inside El, like a distant memory forcing its way back to the surface.

“We know that already,” Lucas said, “we know they need a huge load of electricity for the portal. And we know it screws up compasses and magnetism.”

Dustin raised and dropped his shoulders quickly.

“What?” Lucas asked.

“Maybe that’s just it.”

“What’s just what?” Lucas again.

“Your connection to the Russians,” Dustin said as if it was pure logic. “Maybe they simply needed the American power grid because I can only imagine it being more stable than theirs.”

“Maybe,” Lucas said, unconvinced, and shook his head. “Nah, I doubt that. El, what do you think?”

She could definitely see more pieces of the jigsaw but she failed to grasp at the giant picture. “I don’t know. It’s a lot to take in.”

“Well,” Lucas said, “chew on it ‘cause we’re onto something.”

“Electricity,” El repeated. She remembered what the word had triggered. “If my birth mother is who I think she is, her sister told me that my mother had been subjected to electroshock therapy.”

The others stayed silent. Apparently stunned.

“Electricity is key,” El repeated again.

“Don’t even think about it,” Mike threatened. “Talk about therapy!”

“What if that was the way to get my powers back?”

“No,” he said firmly. “That’s the way to kill you. Forget it.”

By the look of all of her friends, it was a bad idea. Not that she’d have liked going through the process, but if it meant getting her abilities back and finding her dad, she’d do it.

“There’s another possible reason for the Russians to have set up base in the US,” Will said, rerouting the conversation and turning toward Mike. “If, like you suggested, the Russians had been aware of the Upside Down all along, when El opened it, that may have come as a blessing. But when she closed it last year, it was problematic. Yet they could have assumed it would be weakened and therefore easier to reopen than to try breaking through it elsewhere.”

“Yes, that’s a possibility,” Mike said. “But what do they have to gain by opening it? I mean, if Will’s right—and his theory does make sense—and they were so determined to reopen the gate, why go through the trouble of building an entire mall? Why not Hawkins Lab?”

“I don’t know,” Will said. “Because the lab had been exposed? They did build a vast underground facility. It may lead to the lab.”

“The more interesting question is your first one, Mike,” Lucas said. “What were they trying to achieve?”

“Who cares?” Dustin said. “They’re just rats. It’s probably for strategic and political reasons. Not our primary interest at the moment. We can give Reagan a call once we’ve got the chief back.”

“Okay,” Mike said. “So where do we go from here?”

“The mall or the lab,” Lucas said.

“Or the USSR,” Dustin added with a smile.

“I’m not really comfortable going back to the lab,” Will said.

“And I’m a little short on funds for a trip to the Soviet Union,” Lucas said.

“Starcourt,” all four boys said in one voice.

Mike grabbed El’s hand and helped her to her feet. “Come on, let’s go.”


	16. Chapter 16

“When you awake, you will remember only what you saw, not what I asked you to do.”

“Okay,” he whispered, and, for whatever reason, a feeling of déjà-vu gripped his gut, and panic surged in his brain.

Someone was prying his left eye open, then the right, and light chiseled through the darkness, latex-gloved fingers parting his unwilling eyelids. Everything was painfully bright, and he fixated on the penlight aimed at his pupil. Two dark silhouettes stood behind the light.

The two men moved the light away, and stars still danced before his eyes as the men went away.

He inhaled sharply, swallowing hard and trying to clear his fuzzy mind, his peripheral vision taking in his surroundings. A hospital room, from the looks of it. An IV stood by the bed, the sticker on it labeled in indecipherable hieroglyphs he bet were Russian, the thin plastic tube snaking into his hand. His stomach did a nosedive. No, not a hospital room. A Russian lab room. And sure enough, he was the lab rat, in a sitting position on a bed, tied to his bed with brown leather wristbands, complete with ties at his ankles, too.

“You should not allow him to keep even the memories of where he goes,” one man said, and Hopper noted the foreign accent. “Why not wipe his memory clean?”

“I know this type of subject. They need those memories to keep going deeper from one session to the next. And if you give him nothing…” the second man, American, let the sentence drop.

_When you awake, you will remember only what you saw, not what I asked you to do_ , Hopper heard the instruction again in his head. What did they ask of him? What did they want?

His head was pounding, his mind dazed, his mouth dry, and his body felt heavy and battered, gripped with pain.

He had vague memories of having been in this very room before. Like all his recollections of late, hazy by pain and worry—and most likely sedatives and strong drugs—he remembered Joyce somewhere in between dream and delirium, like that moment after you regained consciousness from a rough night, but sleep still lingered.

His existence had apparently been reduced to two modes—asleep and tripping. But considering how sleep deprived he felt, his two modes weren’t probably even working properly.

He’d known that state before. After Sara. But that had been his choice. This—whatever was going on now—had nothing to do with him.

But now, however short it would last, he was neither sleeping nor tripping; he was awake. So he forced his mind to go back in time.

He recalled the unwelcome welcome committee—Russians soldiers lined up, heavily armed and menacing. A lot of screaming.

_“Nein!” Hopper shouted, flinging his arms up in surrender._ You stupid idiot; that’s German _, he realized as the men became even more agitated. “American! American!” he shouted, trying again. “Don’t shoot…”_

Then instead of shooting him, there had been a lot of beating him. Knocked out hard. Eventually he’d lost consciousness and had woken up however much later in a cage.

_He jolted awake and fell off his small cot. His Russian uniform had been replaced by civilian clothes: jeans and a t-shirt and a knitted sweater and a fucking headache._

_Later he was sitting on a chair, his ankles tied together and his hands cuffed at his back, a lamp aimed at him, blinding him and his interlocutors shielded behind it. Another man bracing his ass against the desk where the lamp lay, his arms crossed over a uniform, his stare angry, was all Hopper could see._

_“How did you get here?” said the man Hopper couldn’t see behind the light, his accent Russian._

_“I think my friend Emmett lent me his DeLorean, but I could be wrong.”_

Bam! _The soldier punched Hopper right in the face. Hopper let out a low moan and tasted the blood filling his mouth._

_“Wrong, yes,” the man’s voice said._

_“I don’t know,” Hopper shouted, exasperated. “You tell me!”_

Bam! _the man who spoke with his fists interjected again,_ _and Hopper groaned._

_“Fuck! You don’t want lies, you don’t want the truth. What do you want?”_

_“How did you get here?” the Russian repeated slowly, calmly._

_“Where is here?”_

Bam!

_“Fuck you!” Hopper screamed, and then he ducked forward, head butting the soldier in his stomach. Hopper lost his balance, hit the ground hard, and his rebellious attempt was rewarded by repeated shoe kicks._

_The other guy said something in Russian, then the torturer grabbed Hopper and put the chair back on all fours. He wrapped one arm around Hopper’s neck from behind, tightening hard as he punched at Hop’s side with his free hand. Hopper gritted his teeth and contracted his muscles, trying to take the blow as best he could._

_“Stop,” the other one ordered and the boxer stopped boxing and released Hopper’s neck. Some words in the Russian language were quite easy—for a change._ “Hvatit,” _he heaved again in the same tone._

_There was a pause and Hopper tried to get it together._

_“Let us try again. What is your name?”_

_A few names came to mind, but these guys probably lacked the sense of humor his responses required. So he kept his mouth shut._

_“Maybe we could try this differently. Do you think if we let electricity run through you that would help your tongue—what is your word for that…? Oh, I know!—spit it out?”_

Threats were nothing new to Hopper. Nor was torture or even drug-induced psychosis, dementia, paranoia. He’d discovered the former in Vietnam, the latter after his daughter.

He closed his eyes in an attempt to let passionate images replace the violent ones. He knew it hadn’t been real, even then he’d known it, but Joyce’s kiss deserved a place in his mind as much as any other, especially now. If he wanted to experience déjà-vu, the recurring, dreading waves of intangible moments that froze you for a beat, deer in the headlights, Joyce could be one of them and toy with his brain as much as she wanted. Déjà-vu was, after all, a concept coined by psychic sciences. _Fuck you_ , he thought.

Hopper remembered that they hadn’t needed to use electricity though—not then, anyway—because shortly after, the man had asked, “Your name is Hopper, yes? James Hopper?” and Hopper’s mind had gone completely blank. He’d flinched, his face probably ghostly white despite its swollen and bruised state.

The soldier had helped Hopper drink what they said had been water, but it had tasted funny, and then…and then… And then, what?

He wondered why, after everything that he’d already gone through, and given all the evil people in the world with unbalanced karmic checkbooks, had this happened to him? Better him than Joyce or El, he thought, putting things into perspective.

“Hey,” he called, looking at the door behind him through which the two lab men had disappeared. “Hey!”

One of the two returned. A gray-haired man somewhere in his sixties or seventies. He stood at the foot of the bed, his hands clasped together in front of him. “Yes?” he asked patiently.

“What is it that you’re looking for? Maybe if you tell me, I could give it to you.”

A smile played on the guy’s face. “All right,” he said, and it sounded like “Let’s play this game.” He grabbed a stool and rolled it toward Hopper. “You are an interesting case, Mr. Hopper,” he began.

“How do you know my name?” Hopper said, trying to keep his cool.

“We did our research,” he said evasively.

“Did your research, huh? Can I ask what’s yours?”

“My name?”

Hopper nodded.

“My name is Viktor Yakovich.” While Yakovich was very careful to properly articulate each syllable of each word he spoke, he made no effort to hide the Russian ring to his name.

“I’d shake your hand but…my hands are tied. Literally.” Hopper made a small wave with his bound hand.

“Sorry about that.” He didn’t look like he was.

“So? What are you after? What is it that you do here?”

Yakovich crossed his arms over his chest and studied Hopper. “I like to think of myself as a guide.”

“What kind of guide?”

“A guide…” He paused and looked for the right word. “We expand and explore the realm of consciousness.”

“And by that, you mean my consciousness?” Hopper asked, though it wasn’t a question.

“Like I said; you are an interesting case. You are very receptive. Do you mind if I ask you something?”

“You can try.”

“How long have you been…?” He paused again, stroking a finger across his closed lips as he narrowed his gaze at Hopper. “How long have you been an addict?”

It was Hopper’s turn to narrow his eyes. “I’m not.” How much did they know about him? More than just his name?

“No?” the Russian asked, earnestly surprised. “You’ve never used drugs before?” Hopper didn’t answer; he was trying to gain information, not to give himself away. But Yakovich continued anyway. “I have had poorer results with men who’ve put drugs in their systems for years,” he says with a blithe shrug. “Fascinating.”

“If you must know,” Hopper said as if it were a joke, “I feel like my brain has just been toasted.”

“If you must know,” the man retorted, using the same tone, “you’ve had a few electroshock sessions.”

“I have, haven’t I?”

Two soldiers made an appearance in the doorway, calling _“Ser?”_ with a military tone that made Yakovich roll around on his stool. Hopper saw the back of his head when he nodded at the guards, then Yakovich turned back to Hopper.

Hopper’s pulse inched up a notch, but he fought the anxiety which began to whisper through him.

No reason to panic.

Yet.

“It is time,” Yakovich said simply.

“Time for what?” Hopper asked as he watched the man stick a needle in a small vial and fill the syringe with transparent liquid.

Yakovich pointed the tip of the syringe upward, tapped it with his fingertips to expel any air bubbles, and turned to face Hopper again.

“Whoa whoa, wait,” Hopper said. “What’s that?”

“Don’t worry, it’s nothing you haven’t already had,” he replied as he jabbed the needle into his skin.

Hopper held his breath, jaw tightened, as the thread was drawn all the way through. When it was done, Yakovich turned to the two men, said something in Russian, and then to Hopper: “It shouldn’t take long.”

And true to his words, everything was already going woozy. When he still could, Hopper leaned forward as much as he could and said: “When this is over, I’ll come for you and kill you.”

The man smiled and patted Hopper’s forearm. “I am not sure you will ever remember any of this. Or even my name for that matter.”

He slapped his knees, got up, walked over to the soldiers to whom he said something inaudible, and was gone without a backward glance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hop and El and Joyce are soon to be reunited, please keep commenting, that's fuel to my posting updates :)


	17. Chapter 17

When they arrived at the mall and saw Jonathan, Nancy, Steve, and Robin forcing the Kaufman Shoes’ storage room double doors open with bolt cutters, the gang assumed they’d picked the right place; there certainly was something to dig there.

Robin was the first to spot the kids’ arrival. “Oh, great,” she sighed, lightly slapping Steve with the back of her hand, “your children are here.”

Steve turned around and shot her a look.

“What are _you_ doing here?” Nancy said, addressing the question to her brother.

“Same thing you are apparently,” Mike replied, a tad defensive.

“No way, you go home,” she said.

“Not gonna happen,” he asserted, crossing his arms above his chest. “And what’s _he_ doing here? Did he go to Bauman’s with you?”

Nancy glanced over at Steve and then back. “We picked Steve and Robin up on the way—”

“I’m the only one who’s already been down there,” Steve said, interrupting Nancy as he proudly swung his crowbar above his shoulder.

Robin nudged his side with her elbow.

“Ouch!” Steve coughed. “Me and Robin, I mean.”

“I went there too,” Dustin snapped.

“Well, none of you were supposed to be here tonight,” Steve countered.

“Relax; it’s just for the sake of argument,” Dustin said, raising his hands. “I’m not making a point; I’m glad you’re here,” he added, and winked.

A heavy click and the rattling sound of a metal chain hitting the ground turned every one’s attention to Jonathan. “You want to get in or you wanna keep arguing who came first: Steve or his kid?”

“Funny,” Steve muttered, not the least bit amused.

“Open Sesame!” Dustin said, and with one hand on either handle, he opened the doors wide. He then grabbed his duffle bag as the others let themselves in.

The room was bare, save for some metallic shelves. Empty. It resembled any other storage room; certainly not the elevator Dustin had told them about.

“Now what?” Nancy said, looking around and above.

Steve pulled a screwdriver out of his jeans pocket and wagged it in the air. “Now we do a bit of screwing.”

Robin smiled at him.

Steve narrowed his eyes at her. “Nothing like that,” he said, pointing his screwdriver at her. “Though you can hold that thought for later.”

She sagged her shoulders and gave him a “You’re kidding, right?” look.

Steve waved her off, lost his funny little smile, and crossed to the elevator panel.

“What are you doing?” Dustin asked him.

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.”

“I’m short-circuiting the panel.”

“With a screwdriver?” Dustin asked, dubious.

“Got a better idea?”

“Yeah,” Dustin said, and dropped his bag at his feet. “I came equipped.”

He opened his bag and pulled out a small battery like that of a car. Then he produced jumper cables, clawed two ends to the battery and the other two to screws on the panel. Then he took the screwdriver out of Steve’s hand, nailed it in a corner of the panel, and slammed the heel of his hand onto it. The panel lit up.

“And, voilà!” Dustin turned toward his friends, crossing his arms over his chest as the rest of them stared at him open-mouthed. He nodded with satisfaction and pressed the down button; the whole room shook slightly and then it plummeted downward.

A few minutes later, the elevator stopped and the doors opened on a long hallway. Steve, Robin, and Dustin were leading the way, their footsteps echoing in the empty corridor.

A few times, Steve turned one direction, then changed his mind and went the opposite way, but no one commented.

“Did you find anything out with Bauman?” Will asked eventually.

“No,” Jonathan said, bitter, “we didn’t find him.”

“Really?” Mike said, surprised. “But you’ve been gone for days…” He looked at his sister who turned around to glare at him. “Forget I said anything.”

“We left a message on his voicemail. We’re not giving up,” Jonathan said.

“Figures,” Steve said under his breath.

“Then why are you here?” Will said again.

“Because of the Indianapolis Gazette,” Jonathan offered.

“The public needs a second opinion,” Nancy added.

Jonathan glanced at Eleven, and Mike took her hand protectively. “Yeah, we’ve read it,” Mike said. “That’s why we’re here, too.”

Nancy nodded knowingly, a tight smile on her lips.

“There it is,” Steve exclaimed, and started trotting forward.

They entered a big room. At its center stood metal legs, an evident reminder that something had been perched on top of them, but it was gone now.

“There was a machine here before,” Steve said, stabbing his finger in the air. A concern sprang to mind, causing his brow to furrow. He put his finger to his mouth as if he were going to bite his nails, and whirled around, frowning as he thought. He strode to the end of the railing, looked at the wall behind Eleven, and stabbed his finger again. “And there, there was a rift of some kind. It was glowing.” He moved again, then stopped as he spotted the glass room on the opposite side.

As he lunged toward the room, Eleven turned around toward the rift. She climbed down the ladder. On the lower level, she lay her palm flat onto the wall Steve had pointed and let her hand linger there for a moment. She felt nothing. It was completely closed. Cold like any other underground wall. She could barely slide a finger into it. It was just a scar in a concrete wall.

“You okay?” Mike asked at her back.

She turned to face him and nodded. Over his shoulder, she watched as the rest of the group had gone into the room, on the other side of the glass. She could just see the tops of their heads.

She looked at her feet. This was where Joyce had said Hopper had disappeared, or just about, there was no way to be sure. Gone into thin air. She sunk to her knees for a closer inspection. Not that she wanted to find anything. On the contrary, she wanted to make sure that there was indeed no trace of her dad.

After a moment, Mike kneeled down, too, and helped her. The floor was absolutely clean. Pristine even.

“What’s that?” Mike said, sitting on his haunches and looking at a tiny thing which he turned around and around between his fingers.

Eleven held her breath an instant. “What is it?”

“A rock,” he replied, and she let out a sigh of relief. “It’s so black,” Mike said. He extended his hand for her to take the pebble. “We don’t have rocks like that in Hawkins,” he explained. “It looks volcanic.”

Eleven looked closely at it. It was so small it must have been stuck on the sole of a shoe. She looked up at Mike. “Volcanic?”

Mike shrugged and gently took the rock again. “That’d be my guess. But we can ask Mr. Clarke.”

“Okay,” Eleven murmured.

Mike put the rock in his pocket and got to his feet. After a moment, he reached out to Eleven and helped her up. “There’s nothing to find here. Let’s go see what the others are up to.”

But as they were about to go back up to the platform, Mike noticed a hatch at the foot of the ladder. He squatted down and put his hands on the metal door. Eleven kneeled next to him. On top of the steel, circular door was a bar which was similar to a door handle, only bigger, and also a smaller handle, like that of a cabinet. The hatch looked like the escape hatch of a submarine—Mr. Clarke had showed them pictures once. Mike turned the “door” handle a quarter of a turn clockwise, hearing the hissing sound of metal striking metal until everything was most likely locked into place, and then he lifted the cabinet handle and opened the escape hatch.

Mike and Eleven looked at each other, and without a word, Mike fished a flashlight out of his pocket and aimed it into the opening.

“How deep?” Eleven wondered aloud, staring down at the ladder that disappeared into the black hole.

“I don’t know. It’s like a bunker.”

She looked at him, hopeful, her lungs filling up for what seemed to be the first time in a while. “Someone could have survived the blast in here.”

He nodded gravely. “Yes.”

Mike put the flashlight in his mouth, holding it between his teeth, and went first down the ladder in the narrow tunnel that resembled a well. Eleven followed close behind.

When they were both down, Mike turned his light around. The cave was wide enough for a gathering of maybe twenty to thirty men if they were all standing. Whatever the purpose of the room, it didn’t give its secret away. It contained no furniture, not even a chair. Had no door, at least none visible.

They ran their hands against the walls, swept the light across the floor and ceiling, and when they came up empty-handed, they joined the rest of the group.

In front of two identical consoles, all their friends were facing the floor-to-ceiling glass wall, looking into the room Mike and Eleven had just vacated. Their friends were arguing about something, and Eleven tried to catch up.

“It means it’s symmetric,” Lucas said.

“What is?” Mike asked.

“Look,” Dustin said, and gestured toward the two consoles. “One is marked ‘US’ and the other has ‘SU’ on it.”

Mike and Eleven came forward. Eleven could see each one of the slots where there once had been keys.

“That’s from where Mom switched off the laser,” Will said, confirming what Eleven had just been thinking.

And indeed, above the slots were two sets of letters: US and SU. “Why the symmetry?” Eleven asked.

“Son of a bitch. Wait a second…” Steve said. He moved closer to the left console. “US,” he repeated, tapping his finger on it. “That’s us, that’s the United States.”

“And then…” Dustin continued slowly.

“Soviet Union,” said everyone in unison.

They all stared at one another, trying to process the information. That only confirmed what they already knew—that the Russians were involved.

“Do you think that means there’s like another portal in Russia? And that these, uh, guys can travel back and fro unnoticed?”

If only her powers were back, she could answer that question. And others.

“What the hell are you doing here?” came a loud voice at their back and they jumped. It was Deputy Callahan; he had his right hand on his holster, the other on his hip. “Don’t you know there are cameras all over the place?”

Dustin looked at Steve, Nancy at Jonathan, Robin at Lucas, Eleven at Mike, and so on and so forth.

“And _you_ ,” he said, pointing at Eleven, “what would your dad say, hmm? I’m only here cause of him, otherwise I would’ve let the FBI take over. Now, get the hell outta here,” he concluded, and waved them out.

They didn’t wait to be asked a second time and dashed out of the comm room toward the elevator.

Once they were all inside, Callahan added: “I called your parents by the way, they’re all waiting for you outside.”

“Damn!” some muttered or whined.

“Callahan!” others complained.

He raised his hands up. “My car is too small to pick you all up by myself. Consider yourselves lucky I’m not taking you in to the station. Your parents are my guaranty you’re not going to sneak back in as soon as I turn on my heels to leave. Consider that a warning.” He turned Robin and Steve. “Miss Buckley, Mr. Harrington, I couldn’t reach your parents. Do you need a ride home?”

Steve and Robin briefly stared at each other.

“Um, no,” Robin said.

“We’re good,” Steve said.

“Don’t even _think_ about coming back here,” Callahan warned. “And that goes for all of you.” He swept his finger at everyone’s chest across the elevator.

And true to his words, as soon as the doors opened, Karen Wheeler, Joyce Byers, and Claudia Henderson were there to greet them.

Each of the kids walked, tails between their legs, to their respective mother. Instead of making a scene, Joyce tugged Eleven and Will into her arms without a word while Jonathan stayed a step back, holding Nancy’s hand.

“Nancy will drive me back,” he said, his shoulders sagging.

“Straight home,” Joyce replied, her finger up in warning.

“Straight home,” he agreed.

“Will, put your bike in the trunk, and you, in the car.”

Eleven knew better than to argue. Beneath her harmless façade, Joyce had an inner toughness, almost palpable, and when she got very quiet was when she was the toughest.

Joyce sat behind the wheel, her hands in a white-knuckled grip, looking straight ahead as she waited for her son to settle the bike in and then take his seat next to her. When he did, she turned the key in the ignition and put the car into drive.

It was only when they were home and Jonathan was back that she let it all out.

“How many times have I told you before? How many more do I have to tell you again? You can’t-you can’t do things like that! Especially not behind my back. Not when I don’t know where you are!”

“You’re wouldn’t have agreed to it,” Will chanced.

“You right; I wouldn’t have,” she snapped. “What if something happened? And you!” She pointed at Jonathan. “You’re the eldest, you can’t drag your brother and El around like that. After everything that’s happened…! That’s completely irresponsible.”

“Mom,” Will said as Jonathan looked at his shoes. “He had nothing to do with it.”

“We won’t do it again,” Jonathan said.

Joyce straightened up. Put her hands on her hips. Then brushed her bangs back . Staring at each one of them separately. Finally, she sighed and her features relaxed. “Okay… okay… I got scared, okay?”

“Mom, it’s all right,” Jonathan said.

“I just…” she mumbled again. “It’s just that we’ve got enough on our plates at the moment, right?”

She stared at Eleven, and for a moment, El thought they were exchanging actual words through that gaze. El nodded. Joyce took both Eleven’s hands and sighed.

“I gotta tell you something—”

“I know about Hop,” El cut her off.

Joyce swallowed but her gaze didn’t waver. “We’ll get to the bottom of this. But right now, _right now_ , we all need to step back. You are _done_ ,” she insisted, leaning on the word heavily, “and I mean it: _done_ investigating on your own. No more crazy adventure with the party. Understood? It doesn’t mean we’re giving up, got that? It just means we let pros look into it for now—I-I have someone who may be able to help. But I don’t want you near Starcourt or the lab or anywhere you’re not allowed to be. Ever. Is that understood?”

“Yeah,” the three kids said.

“Now go shower, go brush your teeth, and go to bed. All of you. It’s late.”


	18. Chapter 18

Joyce sauntered out onto the front porch. The summer night was warm and filled with its usual noises. She leaned against a porch post, savoring the cool night breeze as she lit a cigarette, staring into the emptiness. The events and news of the past few hours—days, really—had left her thoroughly drained.

She sat on an old rattan rocking chair in the darkness, her knees tucked up to her chest. The night blanketed around her, the shrieking sounds of unseen crickets, cicadas, and tree frogs slowly dissipating, her mind erasing them until it was almost silent. Her kids—all three of them—were safe and sound and asleep and all here in this house.

“Joyce?” she heard and turned around at his voice.

She gasped. “Hop?” she called softly, her heart in her throat, her neck stretching out like that of an eccentric turtle.

“It’s me,” he breathed out, but was nowhere to be seen.

She hurried to the switch and turned the porch lights on. Still, she couldn’t find him.

“Where are you?” she whispered. She swallowed hard. “Hop?”

“I don’t know,” he said, sounding sorry.

“What do you mean, you don’t know…? That’s ridicu—” _Whoa, stop_ , she ordered inwardly, waving her hands in the air and cutting herself off from saying something even more ludicrous. She was losing it. Bad. She was talking to herself now? She needed rest. She switched the lights off, stubbed out her cigarette, and went to open the door.

“Wait,” he said, his voice so loud and clear in the back of her mind that she turned around again, expecting to see him standing there behind her.

She strained to see. “I can’t see you,” she said tentatively, shaking her head in disbelief and cursing herself for her foolishness.

“I figured,” he replied again against all odds. “But it’s really me.”

“Really you…” she repeated in a daze.

“I-I came to tell you something.”

“You _came_ …where?”

“I know it’s not ideal, Joyce, but—”

She ignored his voice in her head and grabbed the doorknob again. _Get ahold of yourself_ , she coached.

“Please don’t go,” he insisted. “It’s real, _I’m_ real, I promise; it’s not your imagination playing tricks on you—at least, um, at least I don’t think so.” And he _did_ sound so real. She so wanted to believe it was really him. “They’ve been, uh, drugging me, Joyce, I don’t know what they want, I don’t know how to get out of this mess. Hell, I don’t even know if it’s actually working; if you can actually hear me and if I really hear your replies or if I’m imagining things again…”

“I hear you, Hop,” she prompted in a small brittle voice that still trembled a little. “I mean… I’ve had the impression that I saw you or heard you everywhere for a while. But I’ve never…never had a conversation with you before. Oh god…how is that even possible? How can I hear you…?”

“The same way Eleven can move objects. The fact that I’ve used drugs in the past apparently makes me…an _interesting case_.”

“What do you mean…?”

“I know how it sounds, Joyce, but if you can really hear me, then I have telepathic skills…somehow?”

_With me?_ she thought. It wasn’t a question, and it wasn’t asked aloud, but he replied anyway.

“You were the only one I could turn to. I’m sorry.”

“No…don’t be.”

“I wasn’t sure it would work. Still not entirely convinced I’m not imagining all this.”

“If you are, then we both are.” She chuckled softly. _Can you still hear me now?_ she asked in her mind.

“Yes,” he replied.

_So…_ She swallowed the lump in her throat, couldn’t muster the words out. _You’re alive?_

“I— Yeah, I’m alive.”

“Oh god, Hop…” she murmured, her voice so low, as if saying his name might shatter the illusion of him talking to her, might break this unbelievable and fragile connection. _Thank goodness._ She instantly felt guilty again and wiped the tears from her face with her trembling palm, grasping at the doorknob for support. “I’m so sorry…”

“No, Joyce, please… Don’t go down that road. It’s not your fault. You did what you had to do.”

She inhaled sharply. “Okay, okay. How can we help you? Where are you?”

“I don’t know that. You can’t help me now. I just, uh, I wanted you to know I’m still here, somewhere.”

“Are you safe?”

“I’m…managing.”

“You said they were drugging you. Who’s drugging you?”

“I don’t know—Russians. And I think there’s an American too.”

“Oh Jesus…”

“Joyce, I’m okay. Really. I’ve been in captiv— Never mind. I’ll get out of here. I’ll escape and return to El. How…how is she?”

Joyce bit her lower lip. “She’s…” What was she supposed to say? Sadder than Joyce had ever seen her? Did he need to know the truth? She couldn’t say she was “okay” though. She thought about the girl’s recent adventure in Starcourt and chased the thought away, chuckling again. “She’s desperate to find you. She’s with us.” Joyce didn’t mention that she’d just asked Owens for a new forged birth certificate.

“I hoped she would be. Man, I miss her so much. I’m so sorry she has to go through this. And you, too. But I’m glad she’s with you.”

“Hop, please, that’s…” _That’s what? Natural? The least she could do?_ “That was a no-brainer.”

“No, thank you. Really. I appreciate it.” There was a pause, and then he said “I’m—I have to tell you something. Ask you something, actually.”

“Of course.”

“You know that conversation you and I had about you moving out of Hawkins…?”

“Hop…”

“Listen to me. I want you to consider it, Joyce. If you’re still up to it, I want you to move out of Hawkins.”

“Why? I mean, why now?”

“These guys I’m with…I don’t know what they want. But I suspect it has something to do with Eleven. That’s why I contacted you instead of her.”

“Oh Jesus…”

“I’d like you to go. And to not let El know that I spoke to you; that you all stop searching.”

“I can’t-I can’t do that, Hop. They just said in the paper today that you’re dead and—” Her face heated with anger and anguish and her eyes blurred with unshed tears. He was alive. _Alive_ , she repeated inwardly.

“Please, Joyce. I figured you’d balk at the idea of moving and letting things drop. But let them say whatever they want. It’s for the best. Just—forget me for a while.”

Her legs were giving way and she sat back down on her rocking chair, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees to catch her breath. She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Okay.” She exhaled. “But let me tell El that you talked to me, that you’re alive and that we’ll see you again.”

He didn’t respond.

“Hop…”

Silence.

“Hop? You still here?”

“Yes, okay,” he finally replied. “But I can’t talk to her. It’s too dangerous.”

“Okay,” she breathed.

Wondering if he was physically harmed, Joyce let her mind drift to that night she’d gotten him out of his soaked clothes and let him doze off on his couch, covering his naked body—broad, strong, unharmed… _for the most part_ —with clean sheets.

“Um, Joyce,” he called gently.

“Yeah,” she replied, distracted.

“I can hear whatever you think, whether you actually speak the words aloud or not.”

“Oh Jesus…” she said, feeling her face flushing. “I’m sorry.”

“Are you kidding? I’m not one bit sorry.”

“Okay,” she said, trying to regain a semblance of composure. “Well, since you don’t need a penny for my thoughts, let me remind you that you still owe me a dinner.”

“That, I do,” he agreed. “So you didn’t go to Enzo’s?”

“Nope. The guy I was supposed to go with stood me up. Had no one else to pick me up.”

“What a jerk.”

She sighed. “I miss you, Hop.”

He sighed too. “Yeah, me too, Joyce.”

There was a long silence. The music of the night had stopped a long time ago. Only the drums of her beating heart remained, and she wished she could hear his.

As if he’d heard her thought—“as if,” she thought bitterly—he said, “I have to go.” He sounded sad.

“Hop? You hang in there, you hear me? You take care of yourself and come back to us, okay?”

“Yeah…”

“And Hop…come and talk to me whenever you need. If only to say ‘Hi.’”

“Thank you, Joyce.”

“I’m serious, Hop. Stop by and tell me that you’re okay…”

“I will.”

When she tried to get up she couldn’t; her legs wouldn’t work. She pushed herself up and collapsed to her knees, hoping Hopper was really gone from her mind and not witnessing her falling apart. She’d get over it. This was good news after all, no matter how gut wrenching it had been. She could do this. She’d fall back into her old habits, her life filled with chaos. She’d have a word with El. And when Hopper knew where he was, they’d get a rescue team for him.

In the meantime, all they had to do was wait and do nothing. And move away. Leave everything behind. How difficult could that be?


	19. July 17th, 1985.

##  **Wednesday, July 17th, 1985.**

“Joyce,” Dr. Owens added as he handed her the birth certificate from across the booth. They were at Hideaway. Her eyes became instantly watery and glued to the words, “Child of: Joyce Byers,” when she heard Owens say, “I don’t know what relationship you and Chief Hopper had, but I talked to a judge and if you’d like I can have him order the court clerk to sign a marriage license on behalf of Hopper.”

She blinked several times, trying to stare straight at him. “I’m sorry, what?”

“A posthumous marriage.”

She shook her head. Had she heard right? She opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again, tilting her head slightly to the side and raising her brows as if that would improve her hearing—or understanding. In the end, “I’m sorry, what?” was all she could manage again, the only way she could think of to reply.

“I know how it sounds,” he said gently, “but it’s a legal thing in France and similar forms are practiced in China for example. It’s unheard of in the U.S.—as of _yet_ ,” he added with a finger held up, “but it isn’t to say that will always be the case. Each country needs a precedent.”

She lay her palm flat on her forehead, brushing back her bangs, and opened her eyes wide. “I, um— _What_?”

“This way, if you’re uncomfortable with replacing Jane’s real mother on paper, Mrs. Ives would remain where she is and you’d still be this girl’s legal guardian.”

“And you think I’d be more comfortable with being Hopper’s _wife_?” She chuckled, beside herself. She raised her hands apologetically. “I’m sorry, it’s nerves; I don’t find this suggestion remotely funny.”

“Hence my asking where you and Chief-o were, relationship-wise.”

“We were…we were…not romantically involved. We are friends. Very good friends.”

“All right,” Owens said, “I just wanted to let you know this was a possibility.”

“Well, um, thank you. I guess? But see, here’s the thing, and stop me if I get ahead of myself. I could really use your insight here. But Hopper—” She cleared her throat. “I don’t believe Hopper is—” She looked over her shoulder and lowered her voice. “—dead. And I’m having a hard time figuring out how he’ll react when he returns and learns that he’s…married? I mean, we were close. We could have been intimate—and maybe we will be, one day—but that…um… If you must know, we’d agreed to go on a date just that night he disappeared. That’s where we are, _relationship-wise_ to use your own term. So if we were to get… _married_ now—” She cringed and grimaced at the word. “—that would be skipping a few steps. Not really the high road.”

“I understand. I thought you ought to know.”

“Yes, and I thank you.” She looked down at the document in her hand. The one where she’d taken El’s real mom out of the picture. The one where Hop’s name and hers stood next to one another. She looked back at Owens. “Can I, um, can I think about it? And call you back if I change my mind?”

“Of course,” he said.

She could ask Hop. Or could she? Was it so hard to consider marrying Hop… _posthumously? Ugh_. Maybe it was easier. Would be easier on El, at the very least. And Hop and she could get a divorce when he got back. It wasn’t a big deal. _It_ is _a big deal…_ God, what was she supposed to do? She loved him, there was no arguing that, but did she love him _that_ way? He was completely lovable, of course, and if someone asked her the question right now, she couldn’t imagine herself with anybody else, but she also remembered how irritating he could be sometimes and she wondered whether it wasn’t the large empty space he’d left which spoke now.

_Are you here, Hop?_ she asked in her mind. _I could really talk to you right now if you were around… I need you._ She hadn’t talked to him in two days, and didn’t expect to hear from him every other day, but she still hoped he would stay in touch often.

The more she thought about it though, the more she acknowledged that she and Hopper went back a long way. Was it such a terrible thing to consider marrying your best friend? No, of course it wasn’t. And what about if said best friend was, to everyone else’s account, dead? Ah, double standards…

She thought about Terry Ives and the state the poor woman had been in the one and only time Joyce had met her—with Hopper, _again_. Her name on that birth certificate was probably one of the few proofs she ever existed.

Yes, she conceded, it didn’t take a genius to understand that it was the right decision. For Terry. For El. She’d get a divorce. She’d been there once, it really wasn’t a big deal. It didn’t mean anything. Not _really_.

“Okay,” she said as Owens was taking the check and about to get up. “If you can get this, um, marriage license instead,” she said, looking at the birth certificate one last time and handing it back to him, “I think you’re right. It’s the right way to proceed.”

Owens accepted the paper and nodded. He looked up at her.

“You’re sure?”

_Nope_. “Yes.”

“All right, I’ll make the phone call and have your license ready. Congratulations would be appropriate if circumstances were different but…”

Joyce nodded knowingly. She grimaced at the thought that the next time she spoke to Hop, she’d have to tell him. Go directly to Being Married. To her. Do not pass Engagement, do not collect two hundred kisses. Forget the wedding cake, the vows—hell, forget the first dates. Let’s not even mention further explicit expressions of love otherwise referenced as sex… However, if she were to trust his recent hints of jealousy, he probably wouldn’t take the news so badly. Maybe it could even lighten his spirits for all she knew. _Right, because you’re such a grand prize, Joyce; he’ll be thrilled, no doubt_.

“I’m sorry,” Owens said.

Joyce pursed her lips and shook her head. “No, no.”

He put the envelope in the inside pocket of his jacket and produced a copy of the birth certificate he’d already given Hop; Teresa Ives back in her rightful place.

She slid the document back in the envelope and placed her hands on the table over it. Her hands were sweaty. “Oh, and just so you know,” she said evasively, “I don’t think Hopper is in the Upside Down. I think he’s held captive somewhere. In Russia maybe…” She frowned as she tried to read Owens’s reaction. If he knew anything, his face betrayed nothing. “Did you, um, did you find any evidence of where the Russians went from the Starcourt underground?”

Owens leaned forward on the table as if to whisper something so no one else could hear. He slowly and deliberately linked his fingers together, and stared at her, giving her his undivided attention. “We did find a place which could have provided enough room for several men to stay hidden. Point is, we missed it the night of the fire; it only came to our knowledge a few days later. So even if it’s where they—and possibly Hopper, too—hid during the explosion, we’re unaware of their whereabouts.”

It must be the place her kids told her about.

Owens took the bill again, lay his hand over Joyce’s and squeezed once before he stood. “I’ll have your marriage license mailed to you directly. It’ll be an official, _authentic_ document, so there’s really no point in seeing each other again for that sole purpose.”

“Okay,” she said, nodding and swallowing.

“Take care of yourself, Joyce,” he said and disappeared.

Joyce leaned back in her chair, grabbing the envelope on the way, and pressed it against her stomach.

Her mind wandered off to the day she’d been ready to walk down the aisle and embrace her own happily ever after with Lonnie. _Absolutely not_ , she chastised herself. Lonnie had given her the two most amazing boys, but she’d never expected the happily ever after with him. That marriage had been far from her younger self’s dream. For starters, she’d been pregnant with Jonathan, and that had been the whole point of her and Lonnie getting married. Not a real wedding then any more than this future one was. A farce was what it’d been.

At least with Hopper… _I mean, obviously we’d have to talk about this._ But if he didn’t want a divorce, they could maybe work things out. It wasn’t totally out of nowhere and delusional. It wasn’t like she’d never pictured herself with her arm hooked through his. She’d been a kid then, but so what? Things could have been very different if he hadn’t been sent to Vietnam. And even when Bob had been around, Hop had been her rock. And dammit she could use a rock now and again.

_All right_ , she thought. _Enough of this._ Granted, she was soon to be Mrs. Hopper, but while the idea slowly took root in her mind and a small smile felt like blooming upon her face, she wouldn’t make a big deal out of it. No party—certainly not one that involved the “posthumous” word. No ring. No telling anyone save for El and the boys. No nothing. She was doing this for El, she reminded herself. And she’d deal with what it really meant when Hop came back. He’d understand, at least that she was sure of.

And on the off chance that Hopper was really in the USSR, she’d get herself and Eleven passports: Mrs. Hopper and daughter. She sighed.


	20. September 30th, 1985.

## Monday, September 30th, 1985.

Hopper had completely lost track of time. His watch was broken, but he kept it on his wrist. In his mind, it had been broken at the same time his world had crumbled; when he was reunited with El, he would buy a new one. His face, too, was broken and even he barely recognized it. First, there was this ever growing beast of a beard. Then there were the bruises and cuts. And finally there was the weight he’d lost.

He surely could use the condition of his face and body as a time measure somehow, but he wasn’t sure how to read it. He’d talked to Joyce a few times— _maybe five or six? Once every whatever felt like a week?_ —but even there a certain uncertainty remained; he could hardly see the difference anymore between when he fantasized about her and when he actually talked to her and she talked back to him.

And that was what worried him most. His mind was broken.

He was going completely out of his mind. So to speak. One time he thought was a telepathic moment, Joyce had told him they’d gotten married. _Yeah, right._ She had a good reason for it, but he’d forgotten it. He thought she’d also said she’d sold the house and would be moving away soon. He didn’t know where they were going, but then again he’d never wanted to know. The less he knew, the better. Who was he kidding, really…there were now more holes in his mind than there were in a— _Shit…a what?_ Yeah, perfect, that too, he’d forgotten.

So now he was torn between talking to Joyce, wanting to appease her mind, and scared shitless that she’d realize how skinny the thread that kept— _probably?_ —him physically alive was becoming, while his soul was about to disappear completely. Even if he ever returned safe to Hawkins, he most likely would not be exactly sound. But he knew— _he knew_ —he’d be long gone if it weren’t for her.

He cleared his throat and called softly, “Joyce?”

“Hop!” she breathed after a moment and his heart leaped.

“Still here,” he said.

“How are you holding up?” she asked, her voice worried as always when they started talking.

“Funny you should ask, I was about to pack. I’m thinking a trip to the Caribbean might do me good, but I’m a bit worried about how my now-white skin will react to the tropical sun.”

“And seriously?” she scowled with a tinge of amusement.

“Peachy.”

“Hop.”

“Just don’t worry about that. I’m still here. That must count for something.”

“It does.”

“So what’s new with you?”

“Well… Um, I found a house.”

“You did? Good.”

“Yeah,” she said pensively. “Still don’t want to know where I’m taking your daughter?”

“I trust you completely with her, Joyce.”

“Thanks. I know you do.” There was a small pause, and then she continued, “So yes, I found a house and already contacted the school over there. We’re moving next weekend and, if things go as planned, Will and El should be able to resume school right away.”

_Good_ , he thought.

“I’m totally expecting them to spend hours on the phone, keeping their connection with the rest of the party alive, and a big bill at the end of each month… Anyway. At least it’s free with you,” she joked, but he could hear it was halfheartedly.

“Ha!”

“It’s a big step for them. For all of us, really…”

“I know.”

“But oh well. It’s all an act, you know?”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“We’re all actors…pretenders in this performance of normalcy. Anyway. And speaking of moving away…have you, um, figured out where you are?”

“Huh, I’d say the USSR for sure, but I haven’t pinned out exactly where.”

“Yet,” she encouraged. “Keep looking.”

“Yeah, I will.”

“You know, I read an article last month about the upcoming summit between Reagan and Gorbachev. I’ve kept it somewhere, hold on…”

He imagined her shuffling through papers on the messy coffee table in her living room—maybe not so messy anymore if they were moving out in a few days, but surrounded by cardboard boxes instead. “Joyce, I don’t really care about whatever is going on in the world. All I care about is whatever’s going on in _your_ world.”

He heard her suck in a breath when she said, “It-it could be important, Hop. Here it is. The title says, ‘Geneva summit could turn into bare-knuckles confrontation,’ and I was thinking that I could ask Owens to—”

“Joyce,” he said, trying to interrupt her, but she kept going.

“Owens or whoever, I don’t care, just someone high-ranked who could get a word out to the President on behalf of—”

“Joyce,” he said again.

“What?” She was breathless.

“Calm down,” he said calmly. “No one’s going to talk to the President. First, I’m certainly not the first American prisoner on Soviet ground, and like the probable others I’m not even officially a prisoner.”

“But it’s worth a shot, isn’t it? I know this summit isn’t for another whole month, but there’s got to be something we could gain from this meeting.”

“I don’t know…”

“Hop, we need to get you out at some point. It’s been nearly three months.”

“It has?” he said lightly as if she’d just said a mere few hours had passed instead. _Well, there you go. Whoa._

There was a pause. “You had no clue, did you?”

_Best not to answer that one_ , he thought.

“Do you really believe you can corner me with nowhere to hide my thoughts, not even in my mind, but that I wouldn’t hear you when you try to do just that, Hop? It goes both ways.”

“Sorry,” he said, and meant it. The last thing he wanted was her worrying over him.

“Too late for that,” she commented.

“Dammit, Joyce!” he said, and this time he was smiling.

“I-We miss you, Hop,” she said sincerely.

“So do I.”

“Besides the Geneva Summit, you know what else is coming up in November?”

“Black Friday?”

“That, too, yes,” she replied, chuckling softly. “And Eleven’s birthday,” she added more seriously.

“I know,” he sighed. “I remember.”

Another pause. If she hid her thoughts, she hid them well. Unless he’d lost the connection…?

“Joyce?”

“Yes, I’m here.”

“Just checking.”

“No problem,” she said.

“I was wondering,” he said tentatively. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you. I mean, maybe I hallucinated, and if that’s the case, I apologize in advance, but, um…,” he stammered, “I think you said something one day, uh, something about you and I getting—” He shook his head and took a deep breath.

“What?” she wondered.

“No,” he scoffed, “forget it. It’s nothing. LSD is a fucking bastard, you know that? And a powerful thing. Maybe I’ll trip to the Caribbean after all.”

“Hop,” she called, her voice so warm and inviting it hurt. “What is it? You can tell me.”

“It’s not important. Forget I said anything.”

“I want to help.”

“And you do, I promise, you do Joyce. Hearing your voice feels like a battery charge to me, but it also leaves me utterly spent. You remember what using her powers did to El. So I’ll say good night now.”

“All right,” she said reluctantly. “Good night, Hop. Talk soon, okay?”

“Sure thing.”

He opened his eyes and looked around, wiping his nose with the back of his hand.

His cell. His “room;” he was in his room. He went to the mirror and held his hands under the faucet for a moment as he stared at himself. Closing his eyes, he rubbed his face. Dried blood in his moustache was a son of a bitch, he’d learned the hard way; so now he took care of that right away.

The door to his cell opened, and he whirled around at the clattering sound of metal.

“What now?” he sighed.

Two uniformed bullies stepped in, followed by that guy—that-that shitty guy who thought he was so special because he could speak English— _Erik! That’s it; that’s the guy’s name!_ Well, _he_ could speak English, too! And with no stupid Russian accent. _Dipshit_.

“I just got back from a session with Doctor What’s His Name, so whatever it is you want, can we do that another time? I’m a bit dizzy right now. You know that word, dizzy?”

“It’s Dr. Yakovich,” Erik said.

“Right. I don’t care.” He put his hands in his pockets. “So, what do you want?”

“It’s a new thing they want to try.”

“A new thing?”

“Come with us,” he said and went _blah blah blah_ with the bodyguards. Hopper only understood the question mark at the end.

Jeez, he hated this language. He hated these men.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said minutes later. “They want me to do _what_?”

“To communicate with it.”

Incredulous, Hopper turned to face the monster again. “Communicate?” he repeated. Surely he’d heard it wrong.

“Yes. Interact.”

“Interact,” he repeated again, his eyes fixated on the Demogorgon on the other side of the fence. “I don’t even know how to interact with human beings, and you want me to _interact_ with that thing?” He spun his head toward Erik. “Come on,” Hopper said and smiled, “what are you on? Let me have some.”

“For now, you will stay behind the fence.”

“Oh, thank you, that’s very nice.”

Erik gave his order in Russian and the two soldiers cuffed both Hopper’s hands to the fence.

“They will be watching you from over there,” Erik said and pointed to the other end of the cage where a red light blinked next to a mounted camera.

“Wait,” Hopper said as the three bastards set to move. “What am I supposed to do exactly?”

“Make contact.”

The next minute, it was just the Demodog and Hopper. He stared at it. The ravenous creature growled, glaring back at Hopper with its…faceless face, advancing slowly, circling, zeroing in on its prey. Hopper.

“Hey kitty kitty kitty…”

_Communicate with it. Interact._ Couldn’t they be more specific? Did they know something that he didn’t?

Suddenly, the monster leaped and gripped the fence. Hopper jumped as far back as he could, feeling like Sigourney Weaver in _Alien_.

_Don’t panic_ , he thought, slowly turning his face back to…that thing. _Think_. What would Ellen Ripley do? Or better yet, what would Eleven do?

And then he understood.

For the first time in however long he’d been held in the hellhole, he understood with crystal clarity.

That was how Eleven had first opened the gate. She’d touched the Demogorgon and things had gone to hell. The Russkies wanted a gate.

Did they? So it had nothing to do with El?

Well, fuck it. They wanted to unleash hell on Earth, he could give that to them. He’d give them a taste of their own medicine. And he could escape. Exactly like El had escaped the lab. Fuck them. Like daughter, like father.

He turned his face back to look at it. _Want to go home, kiddo?_ he thought. _Let’s get the hell out of here. You and me. Whaddaya say?_

The Demobeast snarled in response. His wrists hurt from his pulling away from the fence.

“Okay okay, maybe we started off on the wrong foot. You’re right; we haven’t been properly introduced. Hi, my name is Jim Hopper. You?”

It yapped and growled again.

“Shit!” he said, panting and tugging at the handcuffs. He wagged his finger back and forth. “We gotta work on our communication here. That’s what the doc wants.” _Come on, hun, work with me, will you?_

This was ridiculous. No way was he going to communicate with that thing.

“Hey!” he screamed toward the camera. “It’s not working! And it’s not going to work either! Come and uncuff me!”

Blink blink blink…

Hopper looked at the monster again. She’d touched it. El had touched it. That was how she’d caused the gate to open, he remembered. He groaned and grimaced. If he touched it, that thing was going to rip his arm off. On the other hand, he wouldn’t be tied to the fence anymore. Half-free. _Halfway happy. Compromise_. Com-Completely insane, yeah.

It thrusted a thousand small teeth throughout the fence. Aminal, killer instinct in full swing.

“For the life of me, will you just—” Hopper trailed off. Using its dagger-like nails, the Demodog snatched one cuff and tore it open alongside a few links on the fence. _Holy fuck, well done, Rex_. He smiled. _Come on, do that again._

The monster stepped back and sprang back toward Hop, knocking his teeth-full head into the metal pole next to him. The post broke at its base against the weight of the monster. Hopper squinted his eyes. Was he…communicating? _Nah_.

But it did it again. The fence weakened. So did Hopper’s shield against the monster. _But we’re on the same team, right?_ He grabbed the pole with his free hand. Just in case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comment if you like what you read, thanks! ❤️


	21. Chapter 21

Hunched over, Hopper ran awkwardly, applying pressure at the wound on his side. He could see himself there again, again felt the stab of the sharp beast’s nail when it had torn his flesh open in one swift movement. He’d never been so close to dying. His long wail still echoed in the back of his mind. Hopper had kicked the creature as hard as he could with the steel pole, and the beast had recoiled—the soldiers making their appearance causing the Demodog to reset its target on them and keeping them busy while Hopper had run off. Still running.

Now, leaping over fallen branches and roots, ducking under otherwise standing branches, he slogged down the snowy woods, dashing sporadic glances over his shoulder. But other than the towering trees forming threatening silhouettes in the night, he couldn’t see anything. He had to assume he was being followed though; for all he knew, they were right behind him.

The air had a weight to it that didn’t make his escape any easier: a below-freezing coldness that seemed to lack oxygen, as if it had crystallized. He breathed in and out, quickly and heavily in pain and sheer exhaustion, panting and grunting audibly, his mouth like a steam locomotive drawing white clouds in the night air. What didn’t help the escape either was that there were no trails, and that these nonexistent trails were covered by several inches of snow upon the first layer of ice. He’d already stumbled and fallen a couple times. His body shook with shivers of cold and sweat and possibly a developing fever due to his soon-to-be-infected-if-not-treated-soon wound.

He could feel his blood rushing through every part of his body—and prayed that enough stayed inside. He shook off the thought.

Something snapped under his foot and Hopper fell, rolling down the steep rocky hillside. Tumbling down fast, sliding and rolling, doing jumping jacks through the underbrush and rocks, he fell like a dislocated puppet, unable to grasp anything to slow himself down. He swung his chin to his chest and held it down with both hands, trying to protect his jaw, his biceps pressed tight against his cheeks.

His descent was stopped short by a boulder. He yowled in pain. _Jesus_ , he thought as he pushed himself to his feet, _a few inches to the right and your skull would’ve cracked open there and painted this rock red_. A blur passed in his peripheral vision. It was nothing. Just dancing white dots in his eyes. He spat blood out of his mouth, and peeked down at his side. He removed a few dead leaves and broken twigs, but it was too dark to see if he’d aggravated his wound. Tightening his jaw, he pressed his palm onto it again in an attempt to protect it and stop the bleeding.

He scrambled to his feet, stumbled forward on shaky legs, his hand to his head. He thrashed through small trees and vines. The horizon was spinning. The horizon? Yes, he could see the end of this forest. With the scant moonlight reflecting on the surface of a lake. Or was it the sea?

After several interminable minutes, he was in front of the water. He looked to his right, then his left, then behind him. Still no trace of his assailants. Nor of anyone else. Wherever he was, it was secluded. He could see no house, no light, nothing other than the black wooden hills at his back.

He crouched down and cupped water into his hands, the handcuffs still loosely hanging from his wrists. It was freezing. He rubbed his hands vigorously, washing the blood off of them. He lifted his ripped sweater and cleaned his wound with water, grunting through clenched teeth.

He heard the muffled sound of an engine, and his head snapped up in its direction. It was a boat. Midsize, with a cabin. It looked like a fishing boat, moving very slowly through the water, big spotlight at its rear as if the men were checking or emptying nets. Fishermen, he decided. Not soldiers. Not lab men. _Rescue_. But they were maybe one or two football fields away.

He checked behind him. There was still no one. But they were there, somewhere. If he screamed, he could get the soldiers’ attention with no guarantee of getting the fishermen’s.

He looked back at the boat and sighed. He considered himself a good swimmer, but in his current condition? In this icy water?

Fuck. He had no other choice. He tossed his shoes off. Slowly removed his sweater and t-shirt. Was instantly shivering, teeth chattering.

He stared at the boat. It was still relatively motionless. He could do it.

He closed his eyes, sighed, opened them again, and then took a succession of several rapid breaths.

He put his first bare foot in the water, sucked in a breath, and then the other foot pushed forward like a rusty robot. The icy water was a complete teeth-crunching knockout. _Do it_ , he commanded, and went on, lifting his determined gaze toward the boat.

He snapped his eyes shut as he moved deeper into the water, pushing forward through solid bits of ice which grated at his skin, at the open gash at his waist. His former few inches of fat around his belly would have kept him warm, he thought with mocking irony as his feet refused to go on further than chest-deep water.

_You’ll freeze to death. Keep moving, you idiot_ , he coached.

Racked with cold that paralyzed him to the spot, he took a deep breath and, ignoring the violent shuddering of his body and the chattering of his teeth, he stretched out his arms and dove forward.

He forced his mind to picture El and Joyce—their voices, their smiles, the feel of their bodies against him when he hugged them, their smells wafting in his nose—and pushed through the ice.

When he finally reached the boat, he was greeted by screams of surprise and urgency. Was ripped off his soaked pants. Dried off vigorously. Given some hot soup he didn’t have the strength to take by himself. And then it all went black and silent.

Hours or days later, he jolted up awake in a bed. It looked like a hospital. It _had_ to be a hospital. _Please, let me not be back to square one._ He shifted with difficulty on his bed, spotted the IV tube plugged into his hand, but saw no cuffs or rope or anything at his wrists. _Progress_. He found the bed remote hanging from its wire, pressed the button to push his bed to a sitting position, and then pressed the nurse button.

A nurse knocked and entered. Maybe it was a doctor. But it was a woman. Yes, definitely progress. She talked to him in Russian, but her voice was gentle. He told her “English,” and she shook her head.

“Phone?” he asked, miming it with his fingers against his ear and mouth.

She nodded and said something, and moved to a nightstand, which she rolled toward his bed.

Hopper pressed his hands together in prayer, saying “Thank you,” and the nurse went out, nodding.

He bent forward and grabbed the medical chart hanging on the bed railing. And, _thank you_ , the name and location of the hospital was labeled on the sheet of paper.

He took a deep breath.

Instead of Joyce’s soft voice, he was greeted with a robotic one. “The number you have reached has been disconnected,” he heard after dialing Joyce’s number.

“Fuck,” he said, and hung up brutally.

_Okay_ , he thought, trying to calm down and think of someone else, _okay…_ He could try and contact her like he’d done before, without a phone, but tired as he was, he wasn’t sure he could hold the connection long, if he even could at all. The next name that sprang to mind was Bauman, but as hard as he tried he couldn’t remember his number. Then there was the Wheeler kid. Surely he would know how to reach El, meaning he’d know Joyce’s number. He closed his eyes as he tried to remember the number, and after a few failed attempts, a hoarse, prepubescent voice came through with a “Hello?”

“Mike?” Hopper asked, his eyes closed.

“Yup?”

He exhaled, his eyes popping open. “Hey, kid,” he said, his voice quivering, “it’s Hopper. Jim Hopper.”

“Holy shit!” the kid exclaimed.

“I’m trying to reach Joyce, you got her new number?”

“Yes yes!” he said excitedly, and gave Hopper the number he knew by heart— _Figures_.

“Okay, hold on, I gotta write it down,” Hopper said.

Hopper shifted on his bed and looked around, his eyes scanning for a pen, while Mike continued, the excitement in his voice not letting up. “Oh my god, I can’t believe it’s really you. How have you been? Sorry sorry, stupid question. Oh my god, it’s so surreal. But great surreal. Oh wow— It’s real, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, kid. Look, can I call you back? I’m in a hospital—I’m okay—I need to call the nurse for a pen.”

“Sure sure. I’ll be right here. I’ll keep the line free for you. Even if El called.”

“Ha!”

“Oh!” Mike realized. “You want me to call them or have them call you back?”

Hopper considered it for an instant. “It’s better if I do it myself. It might come as a shock.”

“Yeah,” he breathed. “But a great one.”

“I’ll call you right back.”

“Okay,” he said, finally calming down. “Oh, and Chief? It’s great to hear your voice again. Believe it or not, I missed you.”

“Thank you, kid.”

Once he’d gotten a pen, called Mike again, and gotten Joyce’s number, he took a few calming breaths before dialing her number.

“Hello?” came the voice through the receiver.

Hopper’s heart was pounding so loudly in his ears, he barely recognized the voice. “Is it Will?”

“Yes, who is this?”

“Hi, Will,” he breathed. “It’s Hop.”

There was a pause, and then, “Who?”

“Hopper. It’s Hopper.” Another beat or two. “Is your mom around?”

“It’s really you?” Will said, his voice low, worried.

“Yeah, kid,” he said gently.

“Oh my god. Don’t move,” he said, suddenly all business in his voice. “She’s upstairs. I’ll go get her. Don’t move. Oh my god.”

Will put the phone down and Hopper heard him running off.

“Hopper?” a pleading feminine voice galvanized by an equal mix of hope and incredulity and dread came through the line.

His eyes fluttered shut. His whole body sighing with relief, sagging back against the bed. “Hey.”

“Oh my god? You’re free? You’re okay?”

“Yes. I’m at a hospital in Magadan.”

“Oh my god, thank you… I’ve never stopped believing…” She laughed. “I don’t have the start of a clue as to where Magadan is but I’m coming to get you.”

“It’s in the Soviet Union.”

“Wherever, I don’t care. You’re okay and that’s all that matters. You’re okay? I mean, okay to travel at least?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Are you hurt?”

“Joyce, I’m fine.”

“Oh thank god,” she said again.

“I’ll need cash, a few clothes, and my passport. Do you have my passport?”

She was crying now. “Yes,” she cried. “I’ve got your passport. I even had mine and El’s done two months ago.”

“Good. Do you have something to write the address down?”

“Yes,” she said quickly—he pictured her wiping her eyes furiously and regaining a semblance of composure—and he told her the address. “El’s not here right now so I can’t put her on the phone but—”

“Just… Just come and get me.”

“Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Thank you, Joyce,” he said, and closed his eyes again.

“No, Hop, thank _you_ …for making it out alive.”


	22. December 27th, 1985.

##  **Friday, December 27th, 1985.**

Eleven stopped at the door with a start. Her eyes met Hopper’s. She quickly gripped the doorknob as hard as she could. Her other hand, which was closed around the rim of her dad’s hat, was shaking. Joyce almost bumped into El’s back, and then the woman squeezed her shoulder at the sight of him. Joyce covered her mouth with one hand.

“Jesus…you’re here,” he breathed, straightening up on his hospital bed. He made a gesture with his hands toward her and Joyce, and clasped them together. “I can’t believe you’re really here.” And at only fourteen years old, El couldn’t believe she was so close to going into cardiac arrest. “Shit, you’re beautiful. Both of you.”

“Language,” Joyce said.

“Dad…” Eleven whispered, the word pushing through something stuck in her throat.

The word was out, she realized, but it had left her with a pounding heart and weak legs and shaking hands. After two years, she’d finally named who he was to her.

He opened his mouth, but no words came out of it. It just hung open, useless. He was looking back at her, unblinking, unwavering. He swallowed whatever was also stuck in his throat, and then finally said, “Come here, kid.”

She felt Joyce giving her a gentle push.

Eleven launched herself at him, threw herself into his chest, and was swooped into two strong arms that wrapped around her and hugged her tightly. He was back! It was him! Without warning, tears wetted her face and his chest. His rhythmic heartbeat was the most beautiful thing she’d ever heard. He nuzzled her hair, his lips on her forehead as he crushed her close, and his rhythmic breaths, so steady compared to her own labored ones, caused her to sway back and forth against him. His large hand covered the side of her cheek entirely.

“What was it that you just called me?” he murmured into her hair, a small tremor to his voice.

She slowly pushed her face up to him. Her vision blurry, she wiped her eyes and swallowed. What was wrong with her throat? “Dad?” she ventured. “Is-is that okay?”

A single nod. His eyes were glistening with restrained tears. His chest heaved up and down against her. The small smile drawn upon his mouth quivering. He cupped her face, pressed his lips to her forehead, then pulled her up so that they were cheek to cheek, her chest against his. “Yes, kid, that’s okay,” he whispered as he stroked the back of her head. “I really like that. And about damn time,” he chuckled.

She buried her face in his shoulder and wept openly. He didn’t try to rock her; instead, he stood still—two strong arms around her chest holding her tight against him, his lips pressing her cheek, warm steady breaths coming out of his nose brushing against her ear—to allow the riot of emotions bursting inside her to abate.

The last time they’d shared such a strong hug was when she’d closed the gate, and she’d missed it. She’d missed _him_.

Remembering Joyce, Eleven took a deep, calming breath—it seemed to be caught somewhere between her lungs and mouth—and slowly withdrew from her dad’s embrace, leaving just one arm over his shoulder, his hat still clinging loosely in her hand at his back.

He looked at El and smiled. “You okay?” he asked after a moment.

El nodded and smiled back.

Her dad broke eye contact and looked past El.

“Hey,” he said, and reached out a hand.

“Hey,” Joyce replied, clinging to the hand extended toward her.

“I’ll state the obvious but…Jesus, I’ve missed you both.”

“We’ve missed you too,” Joyce whispered.

“One hundred and seventy-four days,” El commented.

“You counted the days?”

Eleven nodded.

He chuckled, then raised his eyebrows quickly in appreciation. “Well, good, thank you ’cause I kind of lost track.”

“And I brought you your hat,” she said. “Merry Christmas.”

His gaze was so intense that she felt she could disappear into it.

He put the hat atop his head and smiled, glancing up at Joyce for affirmation. “Thanks,” he said, and stroked Eleven’s face with his free hand.

“Now you’re completely you again,” Joyce said, and then squeezed his shoulder with a smile.

“It’s Christmas?”

“Two days past. But we spent Christmas on the road.”

“This has been my best Christmas,” Hopper said.

Not that she had many to compare this with but, “Mine too,” Eleven said.

Joyce sat on the bed next to her. Eleven couldn’t keep her eyes off him, too stunned to believe it was really him, too scared he’d vanish again. He’d lost a lot of weight, his stubble was worth a few days, and he or someone else had done a poor job of trimming his hair, but beneath his heavy brow bone burned the same sparkles from within his deep blue eyes.

“How soon can you get me out of here?” he asked.

“Murray is doing the paperwork right now.”

Hopper nodded approvingly. His gaze kept going back and forth between Eleven and Joyce, as if they were the most beautiful things he’d ever seen, as if he was wondering when he’d wake up from this unbelievable dream. El could relate. He was a man with a few words, but El didn’t care—there, too, she could relate, and his arm around her was worth a thousand words.

Unable to stop herself, she threw her arms around his neck again and snuggled closely to him. Just to be sure. Just in case. She hadn’t meant for him to let go of Joyce’s hand, she only wanted to feel him again, but he did it anyway. His hands gently stroked her back and hair, and his face was in her neck when he murmured, “It’s okay, El,” he said soothingly, “I know that I’ve been gone too long—again,” he added lightly, “and I’m sorry—again,” he said with the same tone, “but I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart.” He cupped both sides of her face to make her look at him. “I’m coming home,” he said in his deep voice and thumbed a tear away while Joyce rubbed Eleven’s back.

She nodded and sniffed, trying to swallow her growing hiccup. This wasn’t the way she’d imagined their reunion. She’d figured it would have been an emotional road, but she thought she would have been stronger than this; she’d never dared to dream about this moment and hadn’t had the time to fully prepare, and now her heart swelled with raw emotion. She thought about Joyce and how she must feel.

“I’ll…I’ll freshen up in the bathroom,” she said, and disengaged from her dad. “I’ll state the obvious too, but I’m glad you’re back,” she added before going to the bathroom to give Joyce and her dad a moment of privacy.

“Glad to be back, too,” he said with a smile.

***

Joyce wiped her eyes with the heels of her hands and smiled.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “there’s so much to say that I don’t even know where to begin…” She looked at him again and somewhat suddenly added, “Please don’t read my mind.”

He chuckled, saying, “I’m way too tired for that,” and he opened his arms in an invitation.

She leaned into him and immediately felt the warmth of his body against hers as he pressed her close. Her eyes snapped shut. “God,” she exclaimed softly, “I’m exhausted too; I could fall asleep right here, right now.”

“Then do it. I’m not going to report you.”

She covered her face and laughed, but tears were running freely. “I’m sorry, Hop, I’m an emotional wreck.”

“Really?” She could hear the smile in his voice. “I didn’t notice.”

She smacked his chest lightly and put her hand back to her face, and he wrapped her whole body tighter. They stayed that way for a while, comforting each other wordlessly. No words could express the worry she’d felt for the past months and he probably knew it. But that was behind them now. The outlet for her tormenting thoughts was his embrace.

Eventually he took one of her hands from her face and squeezed it against his chest. She opened her eyes and lifted her face to meet his eyes.

“You kept me alive, Joyce,” he said gravely.

Tears stung her eyes again. “Oh Hop—”

“I mean it. I wouldn’t have made it if it weren’t for you.”

She swallowed hard. She raised her hand to his chin and grated it over his stubble. He closed his eyes and leaned into her hand. “Thank you,” he whispered.

She shifted on the bed to get into a better position to face him properly, and she wrapped his neck into her arms as she pressed her lips on his cheek. He started to cry, and she tightened her arms around him, gathering his heaving chest closer to hers, twining her fingers into his hair gently, her lips glued to his face.

“God,” he moaned after a moment. He sat upright to let her know he needed some space, and she loosened her hug. “I’m sorry,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose, his eyes tightly shut.

“Shh, it’s okay, Hop,” she said with a gentle caress on his face.

He shook his head, keeping his eyes closed with his fingers. “No, it’s just— It’s been— I thought—” He heaved a sigh. He was groping for words he couldn’t articulate.

She gently took his hand, noticing the bruised lines around his wrists, and made his eyes meet hers. “Hop, it’s okay. I won’t think less of you because you cry… Is that what’s bothering you?” He stared back at her, still at a loss for words. “God, Hop, I don’t know what you’ve been through. I can only imagine. But you don’t have to go through this alone. You told El you were not going anywhere, well, back at you, Chief; I’m here—with you—and I wouldn’t trade my place for anything.” He gritted his teeth and inhaled deeply. “We can do this, Hop. Whenever you need to talk. Whenever you’re ready. I’m here. And _I’ll_ be here. I know how impossibly hard it must have been for you, but it wasn’t exactly a walk in the park for us either.” She kept staring at him.

“I know.”

Her hand caressed his cheek longingly. She smiled. “God, I’ve missed that face.” And those piercing, beautiful blue eyes. “It’s really good to have you back.”

His eyes diverted from her eyes to her mouth then back to her eyes, and he leaned forward and tentatively pressed his lips to hers.

He pulled back, his hands up. “Sorry. In my defense, my brain has been jammed so maybe I misre—”

She closed the gap again and shut his mouth with another kiss, feeling his hands instantly cupping her cheeks.

***

“All done,” Bauman cheerfully said upon entering the hospital room, waving the paperwork in the air.

That was when he saw the Chief and Joyce kissing. At the sound of Bauman’s voice, they immediately parted; Joyce rearranged her hair and Hopper pushed himself up on his bed.

“Maybe I should’ve knocked,” Bauman smiled as he strode toward the bed, his right hand outstretched.

Hopper grinned, but his eyes said something else—maybe something like, “Yeah, dumbass, you should have.”

They shook hands. “Jim, it’s good to see you again, pal.”

“You too.”

“So?” Joyce asked just as Eleven came back from the bathroom.

Bauman looked at Hopper as he replied. “You’re dehydrated—obviously you’ve been severely malnourished too, though it’s not written anywhere on your chart…” He flipped through the pages. “Anyway. Your blood pressure is too low, you’ve had nineteen stitches to a sixteen-inch gash above your right hip, they gave you a tetanus shot, but no broken bones. They’re okay to release you.” He looked up from the documents. “If you want my non-medical opinion, you need to be checked out again in a U.S. hospital. And a U.S. hair salon, too.”

“So…we can go?” Eleven asked.

Hopper grabbed his daughter’s hand.

“Oh yes, absolutely. In fact, I’ll leave you to it and see what time we can catch a flight home.” He handed the papers to Joyce. “Excuse me,” he said, and exited the room. “Oh,” he added, thrusting his head through the doorway a few seconds later, “and they’ve sedated you apparently, so you might feel a bit lightheaded for a while.”

He closed the door again.

***

Joyce turned back to him. “You’re ready to come home?”

“I’ve been ready for months.” He looked over at El, and gave her hand a little squeeze before letting it go, and he hauled himself up, trying to slide his legs off the bed.

In a blink of an eye, Joyce was in front of him. “Wait, let me…” She put her arms around him. “On three,” she said.

“I’ve got this, Joyce,” he said gently. It had nothing to do with her; he just needed to do it himself, but he saw the hurt in her eyes when she took a step back. He caught her hand. “Sorry,” he said. “I-I’m not used to people caring anymore, I guess. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. I’ll—” She threw her thumb over her shoulder and turned around. “I’ll take care of your stuff.”

His feet on the floor, he paused on the edge of the bed. “It’s just me. No suitcase.”

“Of course,” Joyce said, whirling back around.

“But you know what? I do feel a little dizzy.”

“Sedatives will do that to you.”

“Must be it.”

“Take your time,” she said softly.

“I could use your shoulder actually,” he said.

“Want me to go and find a wheelchair?” Eleven asked as Joyce strode over to Hopper.

“I’m fine, kid. Don’t worry. I just need to go slowly.”

He draped his right arm over Joyce’s shoulders, feeling the stitches stretching at his side. Joyce cautiously wrapped her left arm around his waist.

***

Joyce drifted in and out of sleep in the minivan. She was sitting opposite Hop and Eleven, her back to the road, and each time she checked, Hop was still right there, slouched against the window, pillowing his head on a folded arm and Eleven nestling at his side, both of them asleep. The girl would probably wake to an aching neck but Joyce wouldn’t dare waking her.

It would take eight hours to reach the Khabarovsk Novy Airport from Magadan, and then they’d be in for a long flight home with one stop in Moscow and another in New York.

Murray was sitting in the front, making conversation with the driver. Joyce swirled around on her seat, draping her arm over it to face the road.

“How much longer?” she asked.

Murray turned back to her. “Oh, not long. Maybe a half hour or so.”

“We’ll make the flight in time?”

“We’ve got plenty of time, yes. We’ll probably even have time to feed him before boarding,” he replied, nudging his chin at Hop.

“Thanks for doing this, Murray,” she said genuinely.

“Don’t mention it. Glad to help.”

She patted his shoulder and turned back to Hop and Eleven, hugging herself. Before she knew it, she’d drifted back to sleep.

***

“Passports,” Bauman queried, his hand open to Joyce.

They were at the Aeroflot Soviet Airlines check-in counter. Bauman took Joyce’s and Eleven’s and Hopper’s passports, opening them before handing them over to the check-in agent along with his own. And surely he’d misread the name in Joyce’s passport… Joyce _Hopper_? He looked up at her, wide-eyed.

Joyce shot him a distressed look which meant “Not now. Shut up,” which he did. He plastered a smile on his face and turned to the agent.

He had no idea Joyce and the Chief were married… Were they? Since when? They weren’t! He frowned, glanced back at Joyce over his shoulder, and shook his head. _None of your damn business._

The charming young woman said that all was in order and handed him back the passports and boarding tickets. He smiled, thanked her, repeated “All’s good” to his fellow travelers, and they moved aside from the counter.

“You hungry?” Joyce asked to no one in particular as she accepted her and Eleven’s passports from Bauman.

“Yes,” Bauman said as he gave Hopper his passport, “we should probably grab something to eat.”

“Sure,” Hopper said noncommittally.

Bauman squinted at him. The man was probably exhausted. His girl didn’t look any better, understandably so since they’d just spent the last few days traveling the other way.

“Let’s go this way?” Joyce offered, and, not expecting an answer, grabbed Bauman’s elbow. “He doesn’t know,” she said in a low voice. “At least, I think he forgot.”

“Doesn’t know…what?” he replied, staring down at her as they strode along.

“That he’s-that we’re married.”

He laughed, and then asked, somber: “Seriously?”

She sighed. “Yes.”

“Since when are you married—and how the hell does he not know?”

“I married him…ugh, posthumously,” she enunciated.

“Seriously? Is that even a thing?”

“I guess it is now.”

“Creepy…”

He looked down at her again and she shut her eyes as she nodded in agreement. He looked over his shoulder; Hopper and Eleven were still following a few feet behind.

“Well… Congratulations!” he quipped. “I guess?”

“Oh, shut up. It’s not what you think. I did it for Eleven.”

“Sure,” he lied.

“It’s the truth,” she insisted.

He stopped walking, checked that Hopper was out of earshot, and then took her shoulders in his hands, staring down at her. “Honey, I’ve seen how you two interacted. You can tell me you did it for the girl, you did it for the Pope, or you did it for his money—nah, forget that one; if he had money, we’d both… Forget it,” he shook his head and came back to the point. “Tell yourself what you like, _Joyce Hopper_ , you and I both know why you did that.”

“We’re getting a divorce,” Joyce argued.

“Sure you are, hon.” He pressed his eyes shut, nodded vigorously, and suppressed a smile.

She grabbed his elbow again and got them back to moving. “We are. That was the plan. It was all for El.” She shook her head in self-abnegation. “I don’t even know why I’m having this conversation with you. Obviously it’s none of your business.”

“Obviously,” he agreed.

“And I care about him.”

He opened his eyes wide. “Shocker!”

“And he cares about me.”

“Get out!”

She huffed. “For your information I did tell him about it…right after we, um, right-right after—”

“Right after you married him?”

“Yes,” she snapped.

“How nice of you,” he said with the nicest tone, then he changed to a more gossipy voice and asked: “How did he take the news?”

“Like I said, I think he wasn’t clear minded at the time and he’s forgotten we ever had this conversation.”

“Marriage is so overrated…”

“So can you just keep your mouth shut until I, um, until—”

“Until you finally consummate your union? Yes, Mrs. Hopper, I agree with you: it’s long overdue. Although from my impromptu arriving in that hospital room there, I’d say that’s something underway?” he asked innocently.

“Murray!” she fired in warning.

He waved his hands in the air. “Sorry, sorry, sorry! But you know, if I may say, in some countries, the tribe watches.”

She slapped him playfully and smiled. “You’re disgusting.”

“You two fascinate me, Joyce.”

She smiled at him again. “Can you,” she started honestly, “keep that to yourself until the groom gets the information?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, all jokes aside.

“Thank you.”

He winked at her and lowered to her ear. “I feel as special as a bridesmaid.”

She stroked his arm playfully. “Don’t get too overwhelmed. It may still end with a divorce.”

“If that’s the case I’ll have a word with your husband, madam.”

“Joyce, Murray,” Hopper called, “we don’t need to walk all the way to Moscow to get something to eat.”

Joyce and Murray turned around rapidly. “No we don’t,” Joyce quickly agreed with a grin.

“Russian tea and cookies?” Bauman prompted, looking up at the sign in front of where they’d stopped.

***

A few minutes later, all four of them were sitting at a round table; Hopper between Joyce and Eleven, Murray in front of him.

They talked about the upcoming trip—which included an overnight layover in Moscow in a few hours, and Joyce hadn’t thought that far ahead in their quick preparation. She half listened to Eleven telling Hopper about their new house, new school, new friends, new life as she realized she’d probably need to broach the dreaded Marriage topic before they got to their airport hotel and had to present their passports again. It was concerning because she had no idea how to talk to him about that.

“You’re not going to eat that?”

And why the hell did that even bother her. It was like she’d told Eleven: not a big deal, didn’t mean anything. And yet it did bother her, a lot more than it should have.

“Joyce?” Hopper called gently.

“Yes?” she snapped.

“You’re not going to eat that?” he asked, pointing at the sugary cookies on the plate in front of her.

“Oh no,” she said, sliding the plate toward him. “You can have them. I’m still jet lagged. God, what time is it?” She looked down at her wrist.


	23. Chapter 23

The flight was uneventful. Uneventful because he slept for the most part. The other part was where the monsters and tortures and nightmares and lab men took over his slumber and he jolted awake to Joyce’s gentle voice calling out his name, her hand still on his knees and her lips pressed in a thin line, her eyes filled with worry and sorrow. “I’m fine:” _Absofuckinglutely fine._

Ever since he’d been rescued, and more especially ever since they’d left the hospital, Hopper felt like he was sleepwalking. He was just tagging along, following Joyce, El, and Murray from point A to point B to point C to… Where were they now? Right. Moscow.

“We have three rooms reserved,” Murray explained as they approached the airport hotel reception with their small carry-on luggage—they hadn’t needed anything bigger than this, and figured check-ins would be faster. “We’d figured one room for Eleven and either Joyce or you, Hopper, the second for whomever didn’t sleep with El, and the third for me.” He turned to Joyce, Hop at his back. “Of course, when I booked them, I didn’t have all the information,” he said, his voice low, somewhat accusatory.

Hopper couldn’t be sure, but when Murray suddenly slightly bent forward, Hopper thought Joyce had punched him.

“What do you mean?” Hopper wondered.

“Nothing,” Joyce said quickly—too quickly—and she and Murray turned around at the same time to face Hop. “Murray is being Murray again.” She smiled. It looked fake.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s nothing, really. I’ll explain it to you in a bit,” she said. “And in private,” she added, which put any further pressing questions on hold, and he wondered if that was intentional on her part. She turned to El. “Sweetie, do you want to sleep in your father’s room or in mine?”

Before El answered, Joyce raised a warning finger at Murray but he didn’t flinch. In fact, he turned toward the receptionist as if he weren’t interested with whatever was going on between him and Joyce, and started a little chat in Russian with the young blond woman.

“Since it’s not going to happen once we’re home,” Eleven said, “I wouldn’t mind sleeping in his room.”

_As if,_ on the other hand, Joyce was going to share his bedroom once they got back, he thought—and where _was_ home anyway, how were they going to handle the moving back with El, the new school, finding a job if he were not to go back to Hawkins, did El want to return to Hawkins, did _he_ now that he’d pushed Joyce away, could he even return to a normal life…?

“If that’s okay with you,” she said to him, putting a halt to his unstoppable train of questions.

“Of course it is,” he said. But it wasn’t. Not if he were to wake up every other minute screaming.

Murray redirected his attention to them to say he’d just ordered a couple of pizzas. The receptionist said they could have dinner either in the lobby or in one of their rooms. The young Russian gave Murray three keys and Murray then handed one to Joyce and one to Hopper.

Eleven plucked Hopper’s, looked at the number—her face illuminating as she read it, “Hey, eleven!”—and said she was going to take a shower.

She turned in one direction, then the other, unsure which way to go until Murray pointed. “This way.”

She strolled away.

Murray cleared his throat, grabbed his small suitcase, and exclaimed, “Good idea, I’ll go take a shower too.”

Joyce squinted her eyes at him. “You do that,” she said and he wandered off in the direction opposite El’s.

Hopper looked at their little game, unsure what to think. Joyce was looking at her key. Had been looking at it for the last twenty seconds in fact—number ten. He looked back to where Murray had disappeared. “Is there…?” He smiled uneasily. Then his smile died at the thought. That couldn’t be. He wagged his finger back and forth between Joyce and Murray. “Did I miss anything?”

“Like what?”

“Like, is there something going on between you two?”

“What? No!” She looked appalled.

“Okay. Sorry.”

She offered him her key. “You want to take a shower too?”

“Um, no, I’m good. But go ahead, don’t mind me.”

“I’ll take one later.” She paused, uncertain.

If he knew her better, he’d go so far as to say she looked uncomfortable. And the thing was, he did know her better.

“Can I-can we have a word?”

_Not good._ “Sure,” he said, getting more uncomfortable by the second.

He motioned to the lobby armchairs, but she went toward the hallway. “Let’s go in my room.”

“Okay…”

She opened the door, let him in, closed it behind her, pushed her small bag to the side, and leaned against the wall. Staring at her feet, she stayed silent for a minute that may have felt longer than the one hundred and seventy-four days he’d spent in captivity. He sat down on the edge of the bed across from her, removed and dropped his hat next to him. Waited.

“Um, Joyce,” he chanced eventually, “if you feel uncomfortable because of what happened at the hospital—because I kissed you—please don’t. It won’t happen again. It was in the grip of emotion. I wasn’t myself then and probably won’t be for a while longer.”

“God, Hop, no, it’s not that.”

“Okay.” _Good, because I’m not sorry for that._

More silence. _If not that, then what?_

“Joyce?”

She lifted her face to him and he smiled at her encouragingly when their eyes met. “It’s me, you know you can tell me anything.”

“It’s, um— I know, I’m just trying to find the right words.”

“Okay.” Another pause. “You’re kind of making me nervous.”

“I know, I know…I’m sorry.”

“Whatever it is, it can’t be that bad; just spit it out.”

“All right,” she said, pushing her hair out of her forehead and inhaling deeply. “I’m married,” she said as she exhaled.

“Oh… I did _not_ see that coming.”

“To you. I’m married to you. We’re married, Hop,” she said in rapid succession.

“Just when I thought this little chat couldn’t get any weirder…” He spat out a laugh and then abruptly stopped. The look on her face told him she wasn’t kidding, though it sounded every bit like a joke. He tried to maintain what little of his cool he still held on to. “Sorry, I was thrown off by the mention of my name. We’re… _what?”_ He realized his eyebrows must have shot all the way up to his hairline and he tried to relax.

She scoffed. “Believe me; I had the exact same reaction when Owens told me.”

_I’m sorry?_ “Who?” Was he dreaming? Tripping? In a coma? At the morgue? Were they even still speaking English?

“Owens. Remember Dr. Sam Owens? He was the one who convinced me to do it.”

“Oh, right, of course…” _Anyone want coffee or, uh… poison? No, just me? Okay then._ “Joyce,” he said, trying to slow his heartbeat. “I’ve— Don’t take this the wrong way, I’ve often thought of you as Crazy Joyce but right now I’m thinking Crazy Hop.”

“I know…”

“No but wait… I don’t understand any of it,” he stuttered. “I must have missed a few episodes here. Can I get a rerun? We’re… what?”

“Married,” she said patiently.

He bit his lower lip and sucked it into his mouth. _Nope. I still don’t get it._ He squinted at her. “Surely if we were…ha! _married_ …I’d, um, I’d remember that, wouldn’t I?”

She withdrew her passport from the back pocket of her jeans and tossed it over at him. He caught it mid-air—barely, but still got it after a few free leaps—opened it, and sure enough, there it was, written in black and white: Joyce Hopper. He sucked in a breath.

“Say something…” she said.

He gaped at her. _Something._ How could he have forgotten that? He _couldn’t_ have forgotten that. Not in this lifetime. He remembered to breathe. “How?”

“Owens suggested it. So I could get Eleven’s parental rights. It was done posthumously,” she said with a grimace.

“Oh… Okay, that makes sense.” Did it, though? Did he hear the word right? Posthumously? Actually, had he heard anything right ever since this whole nonsensical conversation had started? He sure felt a few steps behind. “ _Posthumously_ …” he repeated slowly, “that means after death, right?”

“Yes.”

“Just making sure.” He nodded again. _Right_. “Is it…legit?”

She nodded. “It is.”

“Oh… Okay,” he repeated. He smiled, still unsure any of this was real. “What’s the catch?”

“There’s no catch.”

Okay…what was his next question? Save for _“I’m married to you?” “You’re my wife?” “When’s our anniversary?” “Oh and so we’re on the same page…we’re married, correct? Together. As in husband and wife. As in Jim and Joyce Hopper?”_ Was it okay to open the passport he still held in his hand, and get another glance at her name?

“This is probably a stupid question seeing the look on your face… No, don't worry, don’t worry, after a while, I’m sure all these thoughts in my head will wind down.”

“Do you need a cigarette?” she offered.

“Nope. Yes. No. I, um… I haven’t smoked in ages but hey! maybe, why not actually…”

As if she’d decided to stay as far away from him as possible, she tossed him her pack from across the room. Why the hell was she avoiding him? Obviously the marriage decision had been hers, not his.

He took a cigarette, lit it with the lighter which sat in the package, and coughed after the first intake of smoke. He looked down at it and realized he wasn’t even used to the feel of a cigarette between his fingers anymore. Jesus, so much had changed in his absence. First the marriage, then the cigarettes…? He tried another long drag, which was instantly followed by another fit of coughing, smoke wafting out of his mouth and nose.

“Want to finish it?” he asked as he waved the smoke away and bounced toward the window.

“No,” she said.

He did a double take—this woman who’d had a cigarette stuck between her fingers ever since he’d known her didn’t want it now? He opened the window, flicked the cigarette away, and spun around again, trapping his hands and Joyce’s passport under his arms as he braced his butt against the small desk.

“Are you mad?” she asked tentatively.

_Oh no…_ He pushed himself off the desk and crossed to her. “Am I mad? You honestly think I’d be mad at you for doing the right thing? Or that I’d be mad because I just woke up being married to the most amazing woman? No, Joyce, I’m not mad. Absolutely not. It’s just that it’s…huge…”

She blushed and lowered her gaze. He braced one hand on the wall above her shoulder and gave her back her passport with his other hand. She took it, but he didn’t let it go, and that got her to tilt her face up to him, just a few inches from his own.

“How do you feel about this?” he asked quietly.

She raised her eyebrows and sighed. “Honestly, past the shock of Owens’s suggestion, I hadn’t really thought this through until I had to flash my passport. I was…I was thinking we’d get a divorce.”

_Ouch_. He studied her and let the passport go. She looked…expectant? “Is that what you want?” He couldn’t help the twinge in his heart.

“No, Hop. There’s no rush. I don’t carry your name like it’s a disease. I’m just saying that when I signed the papers, I thought that there was always that possibility. Truth be told, I don’t feel like I’m married,” she said, and put the passport back in her jeans pocket.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” he said, and felt pretty much the same. But it was Joyce though. Joyce Byers. Scratch that, Joyce Hopper. “Tell you what, I’m not sorry I shooed that idiot’s name away from yours even though I hardly had any say in the process.”

She chuckled softly, relief pouring out of her eyes. Leaning forward, she braced her forehead against his chest, and he cupped the nape of her neck, massaging it gently. They were both exhausted. Like she’d said, there was no rush. Tonight certainly wasn’t the right time for hasty, life-changing decisions. He clasped his hands around her face and lifted it toward his so he could hold her gaze. She rested her hands on his wrists.

“I’m so relieved it’s not because I kissed you,” he said, smiling.

She just smiled back.

“A marriage is a lot easier to deal with than a mere kiss.”

She smiled and nodded at his poor attempts at humor. “So we’re good here?” she asked.

“Just one more thing. And stop me if I overstep any kind of boundaries…but is it totally inappropriate if I want to kiss you again?”

She rolled her eyes and smiled. “Hop, come on, you’re my husband.”

He narrowed his eyes at her, nodding slightly, “So I’ve heard…” He nodded again. Maybe that was all he needed: just hear that a thousand times over and over and over and _over_ again so as to finally grasp the idea. “Funny, it’s been a while since I was last married and maybe things have changed over the last decade but I—”

She applied her index finger to his mouth to shush him.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” he said.

“You’re nervous, aren’t you?” she said by way of answer.

“Me? No!” he said, waving her off. “You know, it’s not like I—”

“Will you shut up and kiss me?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” he said, relieved, and then he obliged.

His heart began beating uncontrollably the moment he gently closed his mouth over hers for the second time today. A long breath pushed between her lips and sent a throbbing pulse beneath his skin as her tongue brushed the seam of his lips. She grabbed hold of his jacket and his hands pressed into her back, pulling her closer. How many times had he fantasized this? Too many to count… The writhing, nightmare-esque black hole of the past months inside of him needed to close up. As he tried to wade through the thick stream of thoughts in his head, his kiss felt like a wordless plea— _Don’t stop_ —while hers was as warm as the summer which had been stolen away from him, and so he kissed her back with all the life and love inside him until he no longer cared about anything else but the feel of her. His hand slid to her neck, her pulse fast and steady under his palm.

“Don’t stop,” he groaned against her lips without thinking.

She tangled her fingers in his hair and their mouths met again, their breaths coming in ragged bursts as his tongue slipped past her lips to find hers, their kiss deepening.

It was long and more passionate than it had been at the hospital—and thankfully not interrupted. Until Hopper himself ruined it. His lips moved down to the hollow at her neck and when he stopped, breathing there, his chest rising and falling against her, he said, “I need to sit down. You make me weak in the knees.”

“A tough guy like you?” she breathed, a hint of amusement in her voice.

Her hand in his, Hopper went to sit on the edge of the bed.

“Yeah, well…you know what it is…”

He looked at her. Her beautiful face, flushed. Her dark eyes, nearly wet. Her breath, panting. And her hand, in his. He turned it around and lightly brushed his fingers across the soft skin at the back of her hand.

“We’re not fifteen anymore, Hop,” she mocked gently.

He slid his fingers through hers, enclosed her hand with both of his, and looked up at her. “I can do better than that, I assure you. Give me some credit here, _honey_ ,” he retorted.

“Don’t worry; I was speaking on my behalf,” Joyce said. “Hand me that pillow, will you?” she added, and pointed behind Hopper.

He did as told, and she dropped it on the carpeted floor between his feet. She was about to kneel on it, but he stopped her and made her sit on one of his thighs instead. “They’re not that weak,” he commented conspiratorially.

“I never doubted it,” she replied, sitting on his lap, and he wrapped one arm around her waist. “So you’re okay with this marriage thing?”

“Of course I’m okay with that, Joyce. You kidding?” If he wasn’t already married, he’d marry her in a heartbeat. No questions asked. “It’s amazing what you did. Look… Before anything happens, and I’m not suggesting that anything will, but we need to set some ground rules. I can hug you, right?”

She smiled at him. “This doesn’t count as a first date, James Hopper,” she said, stabbing a finger into his chest before wrapping her arms around his waist and nestling against him.

“Pfff, of course it doesn’t,” he said in her hair as he tightened the embrace and held her close. He said it as if it was obvious, because from now on he would agree to mostly whatever she said. He had a few things to learn or remember about serious relationships. The last time he’d been in one…was too far back to remember.

“Welcome back, Hop,” she murmured over his shoulder.

“Thank you, Joyce,” he murmured back, earnest.

He’d have settled with just having her in his arms for the rest of his life, but he got to kiss her. He’d have settled with just being her best friend for the rest of his life, but he got to be married to her. And he’d try his damn hardest so that things remained the way they were right now: perfect.

“Joyce!” Murray called and knocked. “Pizza!”

“He knocked,” Hopper whispered with a smile, and felt Joyce nodding back when he pressed his mouth to the crown of her head again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm out of town for a few days again... But on the up side, I've got not 2 but 4 more chapters coming. Thanks for your feedback, they warm me to the core!


	24. December 28th, 1985.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A long Hopper-Joyce treat of a chapter.

##  **Saturday, December 28th, 1985.**

Joyce fell into Will and Jonathan’s arms as soon as she crossed the threshold.

“You waited,” she said with surprise and joy.

It was almost midnight; which was to say that she, El, and Hopper had been on the road and in the air for close to two days straight. She was exhausted and overwhelmed, and feared the slightest comment or bit of attention might push her over the edge and she wouldn’t be able to stop wailing. Relief. It all came down to this. Because it was over. It was _finally_ over. She watched as Will and Jonathan hugged El and Hopper—one at a time—and closed the door to the snowy night.

She hadn’t gotten a lot of shut-eye the prior night in Moscow. A few moments after she’d fallen asleep, Eleven had come pounding on her door, panicked by her dad’s nightmares, and so Joyce had gone to sleep in the girl’s bed and had kept watch, soothing Hopper every time he’d began thrashing in his bed again.

“So?” Jonathan said, raising his shoulders and letting his arms drop at his side and then nervously slapping his fist into the other palm, then returning the slap the other way. “You guys hungry? Thirsty?”

Joyce fell limply into an armchair next to the couch where Hop and El were already slumped. She was done with the decision-making for the night, she didn’t even know what she wanted for herself—wrong; that, she knew: a hot bath, a bed with fluffy covers, and a long night’ sleep. She’d probably pass on the first item of her to-do list however.

“I’m good, thanks,” Hopper said.

“Me too, sweetie,” Joyce said. She didn’t think she’d have the energy to push anything into her system.

“Oh! I forgot,” Will said, and he trotted to a corner of the living room. He kneeled and plugged a wire in the wall. “Ta-da!”

“Honey…” she said, and this time she cried. “You finished the tree… It’s beautiful.”

Will switched the overhead lights off and the room filled with blinking flashes of yellow, red, green, and blue from the Christmas tree. There were presents at its foot.

“You should hit the hay,” Jonathan said. “We can talk tomorrow.”

“When are you going back?”

“Not until the 2nd,” he said, and dug his hands in his pockets. “Oh and I invited Nancy and Mike to spend New Year’s Eve with us.”

Eleven turned to Hop, gauging his reaction silently.

He reached out, ruffled her hair. “It’s fine, kid.” On second thought he turned to Joyce, an edge of alarm in his voice: “Mike sleeps in Will’s room, right?”

Joyce pressed her eyes shut as she smiled, nodding vigorously. She put her hands on her knees and pushed herself up. “Speaking of…let me give you a tour of the house.”

They hugged and said goodnight to the kids, and Joyce began showing Hop around.

On the first floor were the living area, the kitchen, a back kitchen which served as a storage and laundry room, a bathroom with shower and toilet, and the guest room—her future room for when she was too old to climb the stairs every day, she’d imagine. For now, two cardboard boxes rested on the bed.

Joyce walked in and put her hand atop one, turning to Hopper. “That’s some of your stuff from Hawkins. You’ve got some clothes in these two, but I’ve got some safekeeping in others. Although—” She cocked her head to the side and eyed him, “—I’m not sure a lot of your old clothes will fit anymore. You’ve lost a lot of weight.”

Hopper looked down at himself, then back at her. “You too, actually.”

She ignored his comment. “Oh well, we’ll find you something to wear.” She strode past him. “Then there’s the second floor,” she went on, and the sound of his heavy footsteps followed her up the stairs.

Upstairs, a narrow hall led to a whole set of doors. On the right hand side were Will’s and Jonathan’s rooms—her eldest wasn’t here that often since he had his room at the university campus, she explained. At the end of the hallway was the bathroom—this one with a tub—and on their left were her room and Eleven’s.

Eleven’s door was open and Hopper pushed it slowly with the tip of his fingers, peering inside. The girl was sprawled face down across the bed, still fully dressed, shoes on. Hopper gave Joyce a sideways glance and strolled inside silently.

He crouched next to the girl, untied her shoes and put them away next to her nightstand, and then undid the bed where he could grab the covers without waking her up and rolled them over her. He bent down and kissed her hair, whispering, “Night, kid.”

Joyce stopped him when he was about to close the door. “She keeps it open,” Joyce explained. “The way you liked it.”

Hopper smiled affectionately and gave Eleven one last glance before following Joyce.

She let him into her room and this time closed the door behind them.

“Hop,” she said in a low voice. “I bought some sleeping pills at the pharmacy in JFK.”

“Okay?”

“So you can sleep,” she finished her thought.

“Oh, for me? No, Joyce, I’m, uh, I’d rather not take drugs anymore…”

“I understand,” she said. “I wasn’t sure you’d agree to take them.” She sat on the bed. “You scared the hell out of El last night. Me too, honestly.”

He sat next to her, not too close. “Hey, but I’ll be downstairs, right? So…it’s unlikely I’ll wake any of you.”

“I’m not sure about that, in fact. Your screams were pretty loud. But that’s not my point; I want you to sleep, too.”

“Yeah, I want me to sleep, too, but not on drugs. I’ll try to make me some tea. Or hot milk?” He smiled but that didn’t do the trick for her.

She blinked her tears away. God, she was exhausted. “Hop…” She reached out to him and took his hand. This strong hand. She recoiled at the sight of the bruised wrist. She patted it gently and covered it with her own. Then she looked up at him. “You look exhausted.”

“Thanks,” he smiled. “So do you.”

“I’ll sleep with you downstairs if you don’t mind.”

“It’s not…?” He let the question drop.

_Sexual?_ “No,” she breathed firmly.

He nodded. “Good. For a second I thought you were offering me all-consuming lust.”

She smiled. “One thing at a time, okay? First you get some sleep, then— Let’s take this slowly and see how it goes, okay…?”

“How it goes? How _what_ goes? Oh no, I’m having déjà-vu all over again.”

She gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “Hop, all I’m saying is—”

“Joyce,” he said with his beautiful deep voice, “I was kidding.”

She exhaled a sigh of relief. “So you’re okay with that?”

“No, actually, I’m not okay because I want you to get some sleep too.”

She got to her feet and stared him down, hands on hips, racking her brain for something and coming up short.

He stood up too. “Fine, fine,” he said. “I’m too beat to argue.” He touched her elbow, gave her a peck on the cheek, and walked past her.

She turned around. “You’ve got towels in the downstairs bathroom,” she called. “I’ll be down in five.”

Compared to the frantic previous few days, the house felt eerily silent when she exited the bathroom. For the first time in four days, she could have fallen asleep and not woken up until New Year’s Eve. But if Hopper had come home safe, he was far from sound, and worry gnawed at her from within.

She put on a worn t-shirt and sweatpants, and went downstairs.

“You decent?” she called softly, her knuckles rasping on the door.

She let herself in when there was no answer. A smile curled upon her lips at the sight of him fast asleep on the left hand side of the bed, and for the briefest of moments she allowed herself to believe he would actually sleep through the night. He was on his back, one hand underneath his neck, the other resting flat on his torso—his _bare_ torso, mind you—the covers pulled up to his breastbone.

She’d seen him naked before, but she hoped to God that nudity died at his waist and that he was wearing PJ bottoms or at least boxers.

She quietly slid down under the blanket, facing him, and tucked her clasped hands under her pillow, taking in his features up close. She’d always found him handsome, that was undeniable, but she was seeing him in a whole new light.

Joyce freed her upper hand and gingerly took the blanket to pull it up to Hopper’s chin. Without opening his eyes or moving his head, the hand that rested on his chest moved to catch hers.

“Jesus,” she breathed. “I thought you were sleeping.”

His head turned toward her on his pillow and he opened his eyes. “Nope.”

He shifted so as to face her, but ended up grimacing with pain. He groaned and went back to lying flat, and Joyce remembered Murray mentioning stitches.

“You want to tell me what happened?” Joyce asked gently.

“Hmm?” He was pinching the bridge of his nose, and Joyce wondered if that sufficed to suppress the pain.

“How did you get those stitches?”

He turned his face to her again and gazed into her eyes.

“It could get infected, Hop.”

“It’ll be fine.”

Joyce nodded, unconvinced, and then said, “Can I take a look?”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “You want to take a look?”

“At your _bandage_ , Hopper.”

“I figured that. But why?”

“Just to ease my mind.”

He kept staring at her for a while longer, deciding, then he sighed and pushed the blanket down to his hips. Since the bedroom was only barely lit by street lights permeating the darkness from the window, Joyce turned to her nightstand, switched the light on, and returned her attention to Hop.

She sat crossed-legged beside him and— God, his body had changed in the malignant course of the last few months. In her standards of beauty, a man wasn’t defined by how fit his body was, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t appreciate a beautiful body when she saw one.

_Bandage_ , she coached herself, and reached out to it delicately.

“Hop,” she said, frowning and sitting up right, “it’s wet. You can’t sleep with a wet bandage on.”

“It is?” he asked and reached out a hand to touch it. “Barely. I kept it out of the water stream.”

“It’s wet,” she decided, and jumped off the bed.

“Joyce, it’s fine,” he called.

She was already rummaging through the bathroom cabinet. She grabbed gauzes, plaster tape, and hydrogen peroxide, and returned to the bedroom.

Hopper sighed. “Do we really have to do that?”

“Yes. We do.”

She sat where she was before and leaned forward to remove the old bandage. Hopper lifted his head off the pillow and put his hands behind his head, and doing so, Joyce couldn’t help noticing the muscles contract as fine lines moved beneath the skin of his now-flat stomach.

_Bandage_.

She removed it slowly—it started at his hip and stretched all the way up right beneath his armpit—she was careful when she reached the underarm hair.

“Ouch.”

“Oh Jesus, Hop.” That was the largest scar she’d ever seen on a body. The largest scar. Period.

She lay her palm flat above it, but one hand wasn’t enough to cover it. She looked up at him. His eyes were closed. She tossed the old bandage away with her free hand, and stroked her thumb at his side with the one still on his ribs. His skin was soft and warm.

“What happened?” she asked quietly.

His eyes were still closed when he replied, “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“It does to me.”

“Seriously, Joyce. Drop it.”

Her hand moved from his scar to his face. She wanted to see his eyes, wanted to help, not that she could if he closed himself up like a clam. “I can’t drop it…”

He sighed, his eyes still closed, and finally his head pivoted to face her.

“Please.”

“It was what the kids call a Demogorgon.”

“Oh Jesus…”

“Hence why I didn’t want to tell you.”

“Hop, I would really like to hear what happened to you. All of it. I want you to feel like you can tell me everything that you’ve been through. That’s the only way for you to get better, the only way I can help you.”

“So…” He removed his hands from behind his head and crossed his fingers above his chest. “Let me get this straight. You want to be my wife and my shrink?”

She smiled.

“I’m no expert but that doesn’t sound ethically right.”

She suppressed another smile, grabbed his wrist, and put it over his head. “I’ll be your nurse in the meantime.” She picked up a gauze, soaked it with hydrogen peroxide. “Hold still. It’s cold and it’s gonna sting.”

He instantly flinched, suppressing a smile. “Jesus, Joyce,” he said, slightly giggling, “you just killed one of my favorite fantasies.”

“Would you like to tell me about that, too?”

He shot her a look.

“Don’t move,” she commanded while her eyes focused on her hands at his side again.

Before she was finished he propped himself up on his elbows, and her eyes drifted off to find him gazing up at her. The intense sincerity in his eyes, dark and affectionate, took her aback, and she felt her pulse quickening.

He sat upright, his gaze never leaving hers, and leaned closer. He clasped his right hand around her elbow and caressed her skin, sliding underneath the short sleeve of her t-shirt all the way up to her shoulder, thus sending shivers through her, while his left hand cupped her chin. It lingered down to her jawline, to her neck, and she fluttered her eyes shut, finding herself leaning toward him, one hand blindly reaching out to his biceps while the other found his torso.

His face buried in the crook of her neck, he inhaled deeply, kissing her skin ever so softly, and she tilted her face upward to grant him better access. Slow, tender kisses that made her stomach flip. His lips traced their way up her throat, leaving a hot and wet trail as he nibbled her ear, kissed her cheek, and eventually found her mouth.

Maybe this marriage thing meant nothing more than her signature at the bottom of a page, but she could easily put her heart into that kiss. She sandwiched his face in her hands, kissing him back, her breathing picking up as he started to slide his hands down her sides.

The mattress shifted, and she pictured his hands planted on each side of her, pressing against the bed as he gently pushed her to lean back. She clung to his neck and a large hand reached around to her back, holding her close to him as they both lay down on the mattress.

By the time he hovered over her, pushing himself up on his elbows and his knees between her bent legs, still kissing her with more unrestrained passion than she’d felt in a long while, she was breathing hard and moaning softly into his mouth. She slid her hands across his chest, her fingers trailing down his slightly hairy stomach, the sleek muscles flexing under her caress. In response, he angled his face differently, the thrust of his tongue growing more demanding, more suggestive, and she reciprocated with the same intensity; her tongue seeking deeper into his mouth, sucking greedily and rolling alongside his in a desperation and eagerness she barely recognized as her own. Their breathing quickened together, inhaling and exhaling in dramatic, drawn-out moans.

His hand wandered up to stroke her hair and cheek a moment, then it went over her breasts, covered only by the thin fabric of her shirt. He raised the hem of it and slipped a hand underneath, resting it on her stomach for an instant, a low growl escaping his mouth. She felt her pulse pounding against his palm. He caressed his way up to her breasts, slowly, deliberately, while her fingers took pleasure in the softness of his skin. Joyce and Hop were gasping for air, but she held her breath an instant, her head rolled back, her fingers tangled in his hair as his mouth left hers, going down, the heat of his breath hovering over her chest, his hand closing around her breast. On its own accord, her back arched to meet him, causing the unmistakable sign of his arousal to push against her own. She reached out, squirming beneath him, her teeth gently biting his shoulder, her arms snaking across his sweaty back, palms and fingertips and nails kneading his moist flesh…until she felt the stitches and he flinched with a groan that didn’t match her ragged ones.

“I’m sorry,” she gasped, panting hard into his shoulder, her palm going protectively flat upon the scar.

Planting his fists on either side of her, he pulled back just enough to meet her gaze. Tiny drops of sweat covered his forehead and his chest heaved up and down rapidly. He kissed the tip of her nose, smiled at her, and whispered between breaths, “Let’s take this slowly and see how it goes, okay…?”

She smiled back, pushed her bangs back with both hands, and took long heart-slowing breaths with her eyes closed. “Jesus…” she breathed.

He gingerly rolled off of her, lying down on their pillows next to her with his hands behind his head again, his chest drawing deep, full breaths in and out.

She propped her head up in her left hand, elbow resting on the mattress so as to face him. He _was_ dressed from the waist down, she noticed now—sweatpants, like her—although what he had to hide there wasn’t very well hidden anymore.

She nudged at his elbow with a knuckle. “You okay?”

He reached out and stroked her hair. “I’m more than okay, Joyce.” He gazed at her longingly. “You?”

She nodded, but was torn between “Jesus, what is wrong with you, Joyce?” and “What have you done to me, Jim Hopper?” She said neither.

“And you were wrong; by the way,” he said.

“About what?”

“You and I,” he said as if that was obvious. “We _are_ still fifteen.”

She chuckled. “We never went that far when we were fifteen.” _I’m not the one you made out with in the back of your dad’s Oldsmobile_ , she thought, but kept it to herself.

His shoulders shrugged slightly. “Meh,” he said dismissively.

She sat upright and shifted on the bed, looking for the medical stuff she’d brought in before things went south. There they were. Why did stupid Chrissy Carpenter even cross her mind? Joyce never resented him for that. Hop had been a fling back then, nothing more than an infatuation. A _childish_ infatuation.

“If I may, I think you’re more beautiful now than you ever were back in the day—and you were,” he said. “Lonnie is a moron… If I had a woman like you, never would I—”

She froze and he trailed off. He sat up, grabbed her hand and she gazed down at him, at a loss for words.

“Hey, that was out of line, I’m sorry. People say stupid things when they get excited. It doesn’t mean… I didn’t mean what—” He closed his eyes and slapped his forehead. “Shut up, Jim. Please shut up.”

“It’s all right, Hop. Lonnie _is_ an asshole.” She pushed him down, a gentle palm against his shoulder. “Lie down before you add a fever to your injuries.”

He did. She felt his gaze on her as she focused on applying a new bandage, grateful for the distraction and the perfect excuse to avert her eyes.

Silence settled between them for however long it took to take care of the scar, but she felt his gaze sweeping over her all the while.

“All done,” she said, and gathered the stuff to return them to the bathroom.

“Thank you,” he said as she picked up the old bandage from the floor.

In the bathroom, she leaned against the sink and stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her face was flushed and her hair disheveled. What was she doing? Was she ready to lose her best friend of nearly thirty years if things didn’t work out? On the other hand, at forty-four years old, if she ever considered a fresh start and growing old with someone, there was no better suitor than Hop. It had been two years since Bob. Two years since she last felt…this. And Hop…Hop seemed to be as good and tender a lover as he was the most caring of best friends. They could be happy together. And they deserved it. All things considered, they were even already married.

She dropped her head, then raised her chin again. Combing her hair back, she took a deep breath and flipped the switch off.

When she returned to the bedroom, the nightstand light was off; the room plunged back into its former semi-darkness. Hopper was lying on the right side of the bed this time. He opened his eyes when he heard her, and explained, “So that the bandage doesn’t get in the way.” He flipped the blanket to his left, inviting her to take her place at his side.

When she did, he put his arm on her pillow and gathered her to his chest. He pulled up the sheets on top of them and draped his arm around her shoulders, and she placed her hand on his torso.

“I know we should sleep,” she said eventually, “but I just want to say, it doesn’t feel weird.”

“What doesn’t?”

“Being with you,” she said.

“I knew what you meant,” he replied, a smile in his voice. “I just wanted to hear you say it.” He planted a kiss on her hair. “And no, it doesn’t.” There was a pause, and then he added. “Then again, we’re _married_ , Joyce.”

She slapped his chest playfully.

“You married me out of sheer selflessness and necessity and desperation, all the right reasons, I get it, and I’m not here to judge, but look at this mess we’re in now…”

“Hop?”

“Actually, no, I think you’re the best sanity-saving antidepressant prescription.”

“Hop?”

“Mmm-hmm?”

“Shut up.”

He rolled to his side to face her, letting her head slip into the crook of his elbow. “Let me ask you one more question though.”

She bit her tongue not to reply “As long as you tell me everything that happened to you all those dreadful months.” That kind of conversation was too grim to be considered for pillow talk, she realized now, especially to a man whose nights were already interrupted by too many nightmares. At this late hour, as long as his mind was as far away from that place as possible, and as long as he eventually shut up and tried to sleep, that was fine with her. “Shoot,” she said.

“If I hadn’t returned, would you have divorced me?”

“You’re serious?”

“Why, yes, it’s a legit question.”

“It must be two in the morning.”

“It’s a yes-or-no question.”

“No.”

“Really?”

“Also yes or no?” she asked.

“Yes,” he confirmed.

“Yes.” _Can we drop it now and get some sleep?_

“So you’d…like you’d never have dated again?”

_Cute_ , she thought, and pursed her lips to conceal her smile. “Hop.”

“Yep.”

“I was a _widow_.”

It took him a second and then he got what she was saying. “Oh, yeah, right. Of course.” He leaned back against his pillow, a satisfied smile on his lips. “You’d still have been married though,” he said dreamily to the ceiling. “To me,” he added, emphasizing that by pointing a finger at his chest. “You remember that.”

Joyce slid back to rest her head against his shoulder, her face mirroring the smile on his own, and he wrapped her against him again. “Night, hubby.” She kissed his cheek. _Sweet dreams please._

“Night, hon’.”

She closed her eyes when she saw him close his.

She didn’t know how long she’d been out when she was violently pulled out of her dreamless sleep by an agonizing “No” and the feel of Hopper thrashing against her. She pulled herself up, stroked his chest gently as she called out his name. He cursed, his breathing ragged. Joyce gently shook his shoulder, calling him again, asking him to wake up, telling him where he was. And all of a sudden, he was awake. Sitting up with a start that almost jerked her out of bed. His hands going straight to her shoulders, gripping hard.

“Just me,” she soothed, stroking his chest. “It’s just me…”

“Jesus fuck, Joyce, I hurt you,” he breathed when he came to his senses and realized he was probably going to leave a bruise on her. “Fuck, I’m sorry,” he said, releasing her.

“You didn’t hurt me. You _didn’t_.”

Not wanting him to feel responsible for what had just happened, she took the initiative to hug him. She pulled him into her arms, and caressed the nape of his damp neck, assuring him everything was fine, soothing him as best she could. She had already been through the waking-nightmare nights with Will, but her son wasn’t nearly as strong as Hopper. She didn’t care though. All that mattered was him getting better. Like that had been the case with Will after his return.

As they still clung to one another, she kissed the crook of his neck and he did the same. “You ready to go back to sleep?” she asked eventually.

“Yeah…” he said reluctantly, and they lay back down.

He held her hand above his chest, his thumb moving up and down nervously along her knuckles.

“Relax,” she whispered.

His thumb stopped moving, but she could still feel his pulse hammering in her ear.

_At this point they might as well lance the boil._ “Do you want to talk?”

“Joyce… You don’t have to do this, you know?”

“Stop saying that. Tell me what happened to you.”

“No. That’s-that’s not…not a good idea.”

“Do you remember,” she said barely above a whisper, her mind back in the dreary moment, “how bad Will felt after he had his episode in the field?” Tears stung her eyes at the memory. “And then after that? When we took him to Hawkins Lab? He couldn’t even recognize you, remember? And then later, we had to tie him to a chair and interrogate him…”

“I know, Joyce, I know. I remember. I’m really sorry to trigger such memories—”

“It’s okay. There are what they are; memories, Hop. What I’m trying to say is things can become a lot worse at a frantic rate…”

“Joyce,” he said gravely, “I can assure you that what happened to me isn’t anything like what happened to Will. You won’t have to tie me to the headboard—not unless you want to,” he said with a grin and was serious again, “I’m not possessed. I’m not a spy. Nothing’s growing or spreading or whatever inside me.”

“Then tell me what.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“They’re just nightmares—”

“You were tortured, weren’t you?”

“Yes,” he conceded with a sigh. “And I’m not giving you details. I want you to be able to sleep. Nightmares go away eventually.”

She said nothing. Just stroked a soothing hand on his chest, hoping he’d keep talking and open up to her. She didn’t agree with the word “nightmares” though; if his horrific screams were any indication, he was having night terrors. She shivered at the thought.

“I’ve got—” He took a breath and let it out slowly. “I’ve got everything and everyone I need here,” he insisted. “New memories will replace the old ones.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Well, good, Hopper, because I was starting to believe that earlier little…foreplay was all for nothing…” she said with faux indignation.

He chuckled slightly, then wrapped her close and kissed her forehead. “I’m fine.”

“You were never a good liar.”

“Eh.”

“You know, and then I promise I’m done pressuring you into this, but I think we should give Owens a call.”

“Owens?”

“Yeah, Owens. He’s a doctor, he knows you, you know him…a little. More importantly he knows what we’re dealing with here. He’s helped you with El. He was here for Will.”

Hopper made a face. “Yeah, and he thought it was PTSD…”

“Just…think about it, okay? Keep an open mind about it. It doesn’t even have to be Owens especially; he can recommend someone else to you.”

“He’s just a quack, like the rest of them.”

“Hopper.”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” she said.

“Then hold me tighter. I won’t break.”

“You don’t know that,” he said seriously.

If he wasn’t going to do it, she would. She wrapped him close, pressing a kiss into his chest, and eventually they drifted back to sleep.

When she woke up however many hours later without any shrill screams from Hopper, the sun seemed already way up. The smell of coffee wafted up to her, convincing her to sit up and swing her legs over the edge of the bed. She had no idea what time it was, only that the night had been restless and punctuated by more of his uneasy dreams and gasps for breath. He hadn’t been violent to her—only that first time; the next and the one after and the ones which followed, she’d either grabbed his wrists or lay atop of him in anticipation of his reaction. It’d have been funny or even naughty if it weren’t so damn worrisome.

For now, he was asleep, sprawled across the bed on his back, long limbs tangled up in the rumpled covers, messy in the wake of his fighting demons, one arm tossed over his unkempt hair, the other where she’d once “slept” if one could call that sleep, his face turned toward her side. Now he made small regular, peaceful breathing sounds. No snoring, which she could definitely accustom herself to. She considered giving him a kiss before exiting the bedroom, but decided against it.


	25. December 29th, 1985.

##  **Sunday, December 29th, 1985.**

The ice had rendered the road too slippery and the absolutely frigid temperatures had kept everyone from venturing outside. But neither Hopper nor Eleven had been fazed by any of that. The snowfall of the previous night had finally let up, and what had started out as somewhat of a chore of shoveling the driveway ended up as a simple father-daughter walk. He craved going back to a world of simplicity. Normalcy—not just a performance of normalcy, to paraphrase Joyce. And he found precisely that by meandering in and about the unfamiliar, white-painted neighborhood with his daughter. Their pace was slow—his joints ached and his lungs burned from breathing in frozen air—and was only disturbed by the sounds of hard squeaks of new snow under their boots and the wind of freedom against his face, buzzing in his ears. Nothing more.

Eleven didn’t talk much, only pointing here and then when there was something or someone of interest, and Hopper didn’t have much to add, so they ambled mostly in silence, which was fine with him.

After probably a half hour or so of absolute albeit content muteness, he remembered to be a human being again. He hadn’t wanted to return to El as a stranger. Especially not after she’d called him the only name he’d always secretly hoped she’d eventually say. He’d never pushed her there. And while he had long since considered her his daughter, she had finally reached that place, too.

_Dad_. The name made him whole again, he realized. It appeased him, abated his inner rage, quieted his constant frustration—more than he’d known was possible. As if once that word had been taken from him, his whole being had been reduced to an ever-rolling ball of anger in a game of bowling, a tangled mess of a person who knocked everyone down in his wake.

Now that the word was out in the open though, it felt like his life had come full circle. Not that El would ever replace Sara; that gap his little girl had left vacant in his heart would never be filled again. But if Eleven were to leave him for whatever reason, no one could ever replace her, either.

So, no, he wasn’t a stranger and wouldn’t be one ever again. Whatever happened from then on, El was going to have his full attention. He wouldn’t be the kind of father he’d once been, the one who weaved in and out of her life, gone more often than not. Been there, done that. Fresh start. They all deserved that.

“How’re things between you and Mike?” he tried, his breath rolling out in a hazy plume when he spoke, reminding him of years of smoking.

Eleven’s head snapped up at him in surprise. “They’re…different. It’s not easy being apart.”

He nodded knowingly and searched for something to say. He wasn’t going to be the kind of father who tried to dull their kid’s pain with “You’ll get used to it” kinds of bullshit, either. “I know too well how it feels to be apart from someone you love,” he started in earnest. “It’s good that his parents agreed to let him come over tomorrow.” _Meh_. He rolled his eyes at himself. He could’ve found something better.

“Yeah…” El replied flatly.

“Yeah…?” he repeated with the same sourness. “I’m, um, I’m surprised. I thought you’d be thrilled?”

“It’s just that…” She sighed, a big cloud of frosted air exiting her mouth. “I don’t know if Nancy will want to drive in this weather…”

“What’s wrong with this weather?” he cheered.

She shrugged her shoulders.

“Hey,” he said nicely, and put his gloved hand on her arm to stop her. He faced her, bending forward with his hands on his knees so his eyes were level with hers. “Tell you what, if Nancy doesn’t want to drive, then I’ll drive Jonathan up there. That way, he’ll be driving her car, and whether those Wheeler kids want it or not, we’ll cargo them out here and have a party.”

“You’d do that?”

“Hell yeah I’d do that.”

“And I could come with you?”

“Sure.”

“Thanks,” she said, and took a step toward him.

He opened his arms for her and then stroked her back energetically to warm them both. “Jeez, it’s freezing!” he exclaimed.

“I can’t feel my toes anymore,” she confirmed with a smile.

He took her shoulders between his hands and pulled back to look at her. “You should have said so.”

“I liked it,” she replied with a shrug and a smile, and breathed out a hot breath into her clasped hands.

He nodded. “Me too.” _Like father, like daughter_. “Hot chocolate?”

“Hell yeah!”

He paused. “I’m allowed to say that; you’re not.” He smiled, stuck his hands in his pockets, and started trotting. “Come on, let’s go.”

While they strode awkwardly on the icy sidewalk, trying to find the right balance between speed versus footing, Hopper asked, “So, save for your worries that he might not make it to New Year’s Eve, things are good?”

“Uh-huh,” she said.

“Uh-huh?” She almost slipped, and he caught her. Then he motioned between them and said, “We seriously need to work on our communication, kid.” He kept her hand in his, lest she slip again.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean… Talk to each other.”

“Isn’t that what we’re doing right now?”

He stopped walking again. “We are. But it’s not the kind of talk I’m referring to.”

She looked at him quizzically.

“Joyce told me she gave you the notes I’d written down before I disappeared?”

She nodded. “I still have them.”

“That’s the kind of talk I mean. The one that come from here,” he said, pressing two fingers into her stomach. “And here,” he added, and pointed to his heart.

She nodded and he continued, “I’m not good at it, but I’ll get better. With you. And Joyce. Because when you don’t speak the words—” He swallowed the remaining thought alongside the lump in his throat.

“They eat you alive?” El offered.

He inhaled sharply, the long intake of biting air scratching his throat raw as it descended into his chest. He held his lungs full an instant, staring at her, amazed, grateful. Incredibly blessed. “Exactly,” he said soberly, exhaling slowly. “See?” he quipped. “You’re already better at this than I am. Stick with Joyce.”

“She’s the best,” Eleven said.

“She is,” he agreed. “Listen…” He paused to look at her again. “I love you, kid. That means even when I yell at you or I’m mad, I do. You’re the single most important thing in my life.”

She nodded. “I love you too,” she said, quivering with cold.

He hugged her again. “I thought I’d lost my chance to tell you how important you are to me…and I couldn’t forgive myself.” He pulled back to look at her; she seemed to understand what he was getting at, but it was too cold to have this conversation now. “Your lips are turning blue, hop on,” he said.

She stared back at him with a frown.

“What? You think your poor old dad can’t carry you anymore? I may not be as strong as I used to be, but I _can_ carry you,” he insisted, and she jumped on his back.

He carried her the rest of the way _home_ in content silence. When they reached the house, he let her down and noticed that Jonathan’s car was gone, which wasn’t surprising since he’d told Hopper and Eleven he had to go grocery shopping—he hadn’t been able to the previous day because of the snowfall.

“El,” Hopper called from the top stair of the porch before she opened the door.

She turned to him.

“There’s one thing I’ve been meaning to tell you ever since yesterday but the timing was never right—and we were all so exhausted…”

“What?”

“I, uh, I really liked that you called me Dad. I wanted you to know that. It meant a lot to me.”

“I liked calling you that, too,” she said. “You want a heart-to-heart talk?”

“Sure. Always.”

“I’ve always called you my dad when I talked about you with my friends. I don’t know why I never used it with you. I guess I was scared.”

“Why would you be scared?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. That it was…out of line? Out of place?”

His heart squeezed. He climbed up the last step and took her hands. “El, you _are_ my daughter. Don’t you ever doubt that, because if there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that.”

“Okay,” she said softly.

He moved his hands around to her back and she hugged his shoulders. “Remember when we said no more lies?” he asked.

“Mmm-hmm?”

“Well, no more holding back either, all right?”

“Okay, Dad.”

“Promise?” he asked.

“Promise,” she replied, and they both smiled.

He kissed her cheek, and they held each other as long as the temperatures allowed. When Eleven withdrew her arms from him, he gazed down at her. They both smiled.

“I like talking with you, Dad.”

“I like talking with you too, honey.”

“We should do that again.”

_So grown up_ , he thought. “Yes.”

“Do you think Mike could sleep in my room when he gets here?” she asked innocently when she opened the front door.

_Not_ that _grown up._ “Don’t push it, kid,” he replied, taking off his coat and hanging it in the foyer. Then he removed his shoes.

“No holding-backs… You never know,” she told him with a grin, and turned back toward the living room. “Hello,” she called, shrugging herself off of her coat. “We’re home.”

No one answered.

“Did they all go shopping?” she asked with a frown.

“Joyce is probably still sleeping.”

“It’s past eleven-thirty,” she said at his back, “and she was up earlier; she had breakfast with us.” He couldn’t tell whether she was surprised or worried.

Hopper knew Joyce had left the bed in the morning; he’d felt her go but had been too tired to utter a word. And then when he’d woken up later on, she had gotten back into bed. He’d wondered then why she’d come back to his room rather than hers—she would have been better off there to catch some shut-eye.

He turned to his daughter. “It was a tough night,” he said patiently. “Let me go and check on her.”

Hopper knocked softly at the door. He waited a few seconds and opened it when he heard nothing, and then closed it behind him.

Joyce was indeed asleep on her side, facing the door, arms pressed together against her chest and hands tucked beneath her pillow at the base of her neck. He leaned back against the door, allowing himself to take in the woman in the bed for an instant, his eyes roaming over the gentle sloping of her waist and the crest of her hips beneath the sheets. He still couldn’t believe he was married to this beautiful woman—even if he understood that her reasons for doing it didn’t involve love, not in the inmost intimate, fullest passionate sense of the word, and meant nothing more to her than his name attached to hers. It meant something to him. A lot. In the last few days, he’d probably been through the whole spectrum of human emotion, but this peacefulness he felt just watching Joyce sleep was one of the best. However, he wasn’t a stalker and certainly didn’t want to spook her if she woke, so he looked away and tiptoed to the two boxes which he’d pushed against the wall the previous night, and quietly searched for clean socks.

“Hop?” she whispered.

He looked up, making sure she wasn’t sleep-talking. Nope, she wasn’t. Two sleepy eyes stared back at him. “Hey,” he whispered back.

“Everything okay?” she asked tiredly.

“Yeah yeah, I’m just…” He showed her a pair of socks and smiled. “I went for a walk with El. Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“I was awake,” she said. “Just resting my eyes.”

“Rough night, huh?” he said without innuendo and sat down on the floor against the bed next to where her head was. “Sorry about that,” he said and removed his wet socks.

“It had its highs and lows…”

He slowly swiveled on the carpet, bracing one arm onto his bent knee and the other on the bed to look at her. He held her gaze an instant. “It did,” he agreed, and pushed a strand of hair from her cheek and tucked it behind her ear.

She nodded sheepishly.

“You should be in your room… In fact, tonight, you’re sleeping in your own bed.”

“Hop.”

“Joyce, you _need_ to get some rest.”

“And so _do_ you,” she insisted.

“And I won’t—whether you’re with me or not. So the matter is closed.” It occurred to him that it must have been the first night he’d slept with a woman without anything happening between them, but he’d loved the feeling of just holding her against him. It felt more intimate than anything he’d ever done before, and surely that would change but right now he wanted her emotionally more than he wanted her physically.

“I respectfully disagree,” Joyce said.

“Are we really going to fight over this? Come on, I won’t disturb anyone’s sleep from down here. You’re all upstairs. I’ll tell El to keep that goddamn door shut.”

“Hop…”

He sighed, then narrowed his eyes at her. “Look,” he teased. “I know what you’re doing here, but I won’t let you use my body as you please every night, ma’am. I’m not a man of easy virtue.” Oh Jeez, he was fooling around, _really_?

She rolled her eyes.

He smirked and pointed a finger at her. “Point taken. Well, I’m not a man of easy virtue _anymore_.”

“Sorry, honest mistake…” she quipped.

“I’ll make you a deal. I’ll give Owens a call and look into counseling. I think I’ve got a few things to thank him for anyway.”

She didn’t answer right away, but eyed him suspiciously instead. “You will?”

“Yes.” He paused to let her question his resolution to go through with this, test his commitment, but his simple answer seemed to have sufficed to seal the deal. “All right then. So? Can I get you anything? Coffee? Breakfast in bed?” _A kiss?_

“What time is it?”

“No idea.” He still needed a new watch. “Oh yes,” he said, remembering El’s comment, “it’s eleven-thirty. But, hey, it’s Sunday if I’m not mistaken. Who gets out of bed before twelve on a Sunday?”

“You do apparently.”

“Eh,” he said dismissively, “I’m a weird guy. Weird guys don’t count.”

She pursed her lips. “You’re not weird.” It sounded like a question.

“I am, but that’s okay.”

“Why are you frowning?” she whispered, and pressed her fingers to his brows as if to ease them.

“Am I?” he wondered, genuinely unaware, and she nodded slightly. “I don’t know. No reason at all. In fact, I just had a great heart-to-heart with El. Oh, and she thinks you’re the best by the way.” _And I agree._

She smiled sleepily.

“Anyway,” he said. “I gotta go back to her. The boys went on a shopping spree. So it’s just El and me.” He took her hand just briefly enough to give it a gentle squeeze and let it go. “We’re not judgmental; you can go back to sleep.”

He pushed himself up, grabbing his clean and wet socks, and started to the door.

“Hop?” she called.

“Yep?” he whispered, turning around.

“Don’t be a stranger,” she said softly.

“What do you mean?”

She arched a brow. _Oh, Joyce Byers, have mercy!_

“Oh,” he said, and walked back to her. He kneeled in front of her, leaning forward, his arms crossed over the mattress. “Who are you?” he hissed in utter wonder, his mouth mere inches from hers. “My bad conscience? ’Cause I swear to you, she was sitting right here—on this shoulder—just a minute ago, but then my _good_ conscience said, ‘Be a good boy and—’”

She grabbed him by the collar and kissed him.

“Oh my god,” he said in mock horror when she broke the kiss, “you really _are_ my bad conscience!”

The right shade of blush on her cheeks, she responded with the softest of smiles which he mirrored as they held each other’s gaze, and she stroked his face gently.

“I like the beard.” It wasn’t really a beard, more like a neglected stubble really.

He took her hand. “What did I ever do to be so lucky?” he wondered in a whisper.

She smiled wryly.

He blinked. “That’s- _That’s_ your answer?” _A smile?_

“I promise not to tell anyone about your soft side, Hop.”

“Well, don’t get too excited about it; my old, grumpy self is probably going to show himself again soon enough,” he smirked briefly. “It’s kind of a package deal, see, like Jekyll and Hyde.”

“Yeah…I don’t know, Hop,” she said, pursing her lips and narrowing her eyes as though she was thinking about it. “I know you can be another animal entirely, but the antagonist side of you was never as bad as Hyde.”

“No?”

She firmly shook her head no. “You’re…you’re-you’re a Bruce Banner,” she declared.

“Who’s Bruce Banner?”

“Oh come on, didn’t you read comics when you were a kid?”

_Oh come on, didn’t you know me better when we were kids?_ “No,” he said. _Obviously_.

“Bruce Banner is the Hulk!”

“You think I’m the Hulk?” he asked, dumbfounded.

“Sure,” she declared, enthused, but didn’t look entirely sure. “He’s the classic case of split personality disorder, you know. And he becomes someone else who acts as a conduit for all his repressed feelings.”

“Huh,” he puffed.

“And while some may do nefarious things in a subhuman state, the Hulk is kind of heroic.” She paused just a second. “He’s kind of neat,” she realized.

“Joyce, just so we’re on the same page… Are you trying to turn me on?” _Or are you just that naturally irresistible?_

“Did I fail miserably?”

“Mmm…” he hummed and he swiftly cupped her face with both hands, rolled her to her back as he swooped on the bed and straddled her hips. Before she could do anything but let out a small yelp, he bowed over her and kissed her full on the mouth, her lips still slightly open in surprise. She clung to his sweater and his skin started to heat up again. This was dangerous territory.

_Not now_ , he scolded himself, wishing he could continue to kiss her for a few more minutes and that his body would still not give him away. “I can’t,” he said, reluctantly pulling back, “I gotta go back to El.”

He kissed her quickly a few times and got off the bed. “So? French toast, coffee, anything else?” he asked as he strode to the door.

“No,” she smiled. “I’ll be up in a minute.”

“All right.” He put his hand on the door, then turned back to her. “You know, we do need this first date. I feel like a teen making out and afraid to get caught by your parents…or well, our kids. Oh whoa,” he realized, “I’m Mike Wheeler. I’m Mike Wheeler,” he repeated urgently. “We need to talk.”

“I agree.”

“Good, so you’re taking me out to lunch ’cause I’m broke and I don’t know my way around town.”

She smiled and waved him off. “Fine. Get out.”

Flipping through a magazine, Eleven glanced up at Hop when he closed the bedroom door. He went to the back kitchen to put his socks in the washing machine, and returned to sit next to his daughter.

“Joyce okay?” Eleven asked, dropping the magazine into her lap while he put on the clean socks.

“Yeah…I-I couldn’t find new socks.”

She rolled her eyes. “I lost my psychic abilities, not my eyesight.”

He leaned back against the couch, crossing his arms over his chest as he smiled at her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She tossed the magazine on the coffee table, pushed herself up on the couch and moved to sit crossed-legged facing him. “That means you don’t have to lie to me.”

“I’m not lying. I _was_ looking for dry socks.”

“Cranky.”

He scoffed. “I’m not.”

“Sure. So, nothing else happened with Joyce?”

“No,” he lied as if it was obvious, and averted his eyes.

“Okay. Fine.” She picked up her magazine again, then changed her mind, annoyed, and tossed it back. “So, it’s okay for you to ask me about Mike and expect me not to hide anything from you, but I shouldn’t expect honesty when I do the same thing?”

_I’m not Mike Wheeler!_ he cried out in his head. “Okay okay, you’re right.” He took her hand. “See, thing is, I should really have this conversation with Joyce first.”

“Why?”

“Because…” He sighed. “Because we haven’t had a heart to heart yet. I just came back and I don’t know what she wants to…do with me. You know? Should I, like, take you back to Hawkins or should we find our own place nearby? Does she want me to live here? I don’t know.” He studied his daughter for a second or two. “What would you want?”

“Well… On the one hand, I really like living with Joyce and Will and everything, but I equally really miss seeing Mike everyday.”

“Yeah…”

“But on the other hand, if we went back to Hawkins and it were just the two of us, I would miss Joyce. And so would you.”

“That’s right,” he said softly.

They stayed silent for a few minutes, and then she took his hand, and said, “But you’ll figure out what’s best. We’ll be okay.”

“We will,” he said with more conviction than he felt. “Actually, I’m going out to eat with Joyce in a little while. Is it okay if you stay and have lunch with Will and Jonathan?”

She replied that it was, that this wasn’t new to her and she’d often had lunch or dinner with the Byers boys when Joyce was working, and he realized how much he’d missed.

“Hey,” she said, her interest piqued out of nowhere. “Do you still do it with Joyce?” She moved and folded her legs beneath her as if the conversation was just getting more interesting.

He sucked in a breath. “Do… _it_?” he asked hesitantly. He was so not ready to have this kind of talk with his daughter.

“Can you tell me about it?”

He squinted his eyes at her. “You want me to tell you…about, uh, what, exactly?”

“Joyce said that you talked to her, you know, mind to mind? Can you do it again? With me?”

_Oh! That!_ He breathed a sigh of relief. “I’m not sure, sweetie. They drugged me. I’m not sure it would work anymore.”

“But don’t you want to know?”

“I’m not—” He drummed his finger on his lips. “I’m really not sure, El,” he said in earnest. “Besides, you’re right beside me. Why would you want me to…you know, come in there and be that annoying parent who looks through your stuff?”

“You did that?”

“No,” he lied. “Just this once,” he then admitted. “I was worried you were hiding things from me. And I felt so bad about it,” he added quickly, “that I never did it again afterward.”

“When was this?”

“A long time ago. It doesn’t matter, kid. I made a lot of mistakes in the past, El, but I will be a better father to you. I promise.”

“I believe you, Dad.”

“You know… You may have lost your powers, you still got that power over me.”

She gave him a half smile. “When you were gone, I often saw you in my dreams. I had the sensation that you talked to me.”

“As much as I wanted to, I didn’t. I couldn’t take the risk that they’d look for you if I did.”

She nodded. “There was this one time when you said something about breaking the rules and making new rules.”

Hopper blinked and swallowed. “Whoa… I think I, um, I did think about new rules when I was there, yeah. I just…I had no idea I had a connection with you. You sure it wasn’t you? Your powers aren’t back yet?”

She shook her head.

He raised his brows in surprise and incomprehension. “I have no way to explain it…but I’ll think about it,” he said as Joyce came out of the bedroom.

***

“Your food will be here shortly,” the young waitress said, setting down a bottle of beer in front of Hopper and a glass of red wine for Joyce. “Can I get you anything else?”

“We’re good,” Joyce said with a polite smile.

Hopper watched the waitress as she went away and then glanced over at Joyce sitting opposite him at the round table. He set his elbows on the table, clasped his hands, and rested his chin on his thumbs. He cleared his throat and inhaled sharply.

“Okay,” he started, “you want to know what happened in Russia, so let’s get this over with. But no questions, all right? I’ll give you the highlight and then we don’t talk about it afterward…”

“Okay…?” she replied patiently, and then shifted in her seat, clasping her own hands together.

He didn’t want their relationship to unravel because of harrowing events he’d kept hidden. And he didn’t want to act as if these events were nothing, either; as if he could deal with them on his own. If he and Joyce were to stay close, he had to give her something. So he breached the proverbial dam and told her everything, leaving out only the most gruesome details. True to her word, she never tried to interrupt as he recounted the interrogations, the experimentations with drugs and electroshock, his psychic wandering in the Black Hole and the Upside Down—whether that had been real or entirely fabricated, he still didn’t know—his filthy prison cell, and finally his escape. He told her of his suspicion that there had been at least one other American involved but that he hadn’t recognized the voice. And finally he explained that that was all he remembered, but he was almost certain some chunks of his memory had been wiped out deliberately, as if under hypnosis. Joyce sat in silence the whole time, the worry plain on her face, and he was pretty sure she was physically living the story. He hated himself for it.

When he stopped talking, she inhaled a slow and deep breath and took his hands. “Thanks.”

He pursed his lips. “Wait a few days and see if you still want to thank me,” he joked halfheartedly. “All right, so, now we can talk about something else.”

“Okay, but just so you know, if you ever change your mind…” she said, concern still coloring her voice.

He held up a hand. “I know.” He paused. “Let’s move on to the next uncomfortable topic, shall we?”

She raised her eyebrows. “Okay,” she said and sat upright, putting her napkin on her lap, “what’d you have in mind?”

Hopper licked his lips, then his teeth worried his lower one as he squinted his eyes at her. “Um, us?”

“All right…?” A ghost of a smile touched her lips and she narrowed her gaze at him. “That’s, uh, that’s an uncomfortable topic?”

“Ugh… It’s not the way I— No.” He smiled uneasily. “Clearly it’s been a while since I’ve been on a date.”

“You think?” she mocked.

“Look, Joyce, what I mean to say is…I don’t want you to do anything you’re not comfortable with; we’ve had a hard few months as it is. And these past couple days have been… _amazing_ , but also incredibly overwhelming—for all of us—and we are both vulnerable and worn out, and maybe you’re upset about the marriage thing or my nightmares and, uh— I just don’t want you to feel like I’m taking advantage of you. Because I’m not and that’s the last thing I ever want to do. It’s just that I have so many questions and uncertainties and—”

“Okay, um, Hop? Mind if I squeeze in and say something here?”

“Please…” he pleaded and motioned for her to speak.

“Hey,” she cheered, smiling to reset the tone and absently circling her finger around the rim of her glass of wine.

“Hey.”

She took his beer and handed it to him, then she took her glass and clicked it with a “Cheers” against his drink. She took a sip. He did too.

“So, how are you doing?” she asked casually.

“Oh, you know… Bitchin’,” he said, shrugging off the question with a grin.

She laughed. “God, we’re so bad at this, aren’t we?”

He couldn’t help letting out a short laugh, too, and then he scrubbed a hand over his face. “We are.”

“Hop, you want to clear the air, fine—so do I. I’ll go straight to the point and say that I don’t regret any part of what happened between us. Do you?”

“Jesus, Joyce, no,” he replied quickly. He seized both of her hands in his and squeezed them, then stroked the backs of her hands with his thumbs. “Of course not. Don’t you know your audience already?”

“All right, so let’s try and make this work. How hard can that be? I mean, sure, it’s a bit weird, you know…because it’s us. But it doesn’t have to be weird. We just have to be…I don’t know…nonchalant about it?”

“Yes,” he said eagerly, “I can do nonchalance.”

“The thing is, even though I never thought about us as a couple—not recently anyway—I’m really liking that new side of you.”

“Huh…” he said and paused. “That’s, um… Huh!” He leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other.

“What?” she said.

“Oh, nothing…”

“What is it?”

“Honey, I’m pretending to act nonchalant here.”

She chuckled. “If you’re playing hard to get, you could’ve fooled me.” She reached out a hand. “Get back here, Hop.”

He dragged his chair closer to the table and took her hand, squeezing it. Then she leaned forward and kissed him.

“Wow. See, I’m sorry, but there’s no way I can be nonchalant when you do something like that. But feel free to do it any time you’re up to it,” he added. He held her gaze intently a moment, and then said in a more serious tone, “So, let me phrase this out loud, we’re dating?”

“Odd as it is, it _is_ a date, Hop.”

He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. “Good, good,” he said more nervously than he would have liked. “And you’re right, you’re absolutely right; we don’t have to be all weird about it. We’re both grown-ups, right?”

“Yup, that, we are. More than I care to know.” She took a sip of wine.

“I didn’t say ’old,’ Joyce,” he said with a touch of reprimand. “Besides, I don’t think you get older; you just get better. You’re like fine wine.”

She smiled. “And you would know,” she said, pointing at his beer.

“Hey, I love fine wine,” he countered, and took a sip from her glass. “It’s good,” he exclaimed. “Okay,” he then admitted, “I can’t tell fine from cheap wine.” Was that Chianti she was having? Who was he kidding? He didn’t even know if Chianti was a fine one.

“Sorry, guys,” the waitress said as she arrived with two plates of cheeseburgers and fries. They let go of each other’s hands and she put the food down in front of them. “There you go,” she said. “Enjoy your meal.”

“You know, this place may not be as fancy as Enzo’s was, but I’m more comfortable with good ol’ American food,” Hop said when he and Joyce were alone again. He looked down at his huge cheeseburger. “Anyway. So? What, um, what do we tell the kids?”

“I think it’s safe to say they already know. They know I married you…”

“But are you _okay_ with this?” he insisted with a soft smile. “Like, if I did this,” he said and gently pushed her hand up with his own so that he could intertwine their fingers, “or this?” he asked, and stood over the table to kiss her again.

“You know what? I am,” she said, returning his smile. “I did say that if we made it out of there, we deserved to celebrate… And dammit, we do.”

“Okay… Okay… So, we’re…moving on,” he realized out loud. “Cool. So we’re dating. We’re dating… Wow.”

“Hop?”

“Hmm?”

“Relax. It’s going to be all right.”

“You’re right,” he said. “No big deal.” _Hell it isn’t!_ he thought. “We’re married after all.”

“Technicality.”

“Right, right.” _Jesus, Hop, just relax!_

“Hop, stop being so jittery.”

“I’m not jittery.”

“You’re making me nervous too.”

“Oh, I’m making _you_ nervous? I’m sorry, Joyce, but then again: glass houses.”

“What?”

“It means those who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones,” he said noncommittally.

“I know what it means. I’m not living in a glass house!” She sounded outraged.

“It’s a _saying_ , Joyce, okay? You’re accusing _me_ of being nervous because _you_ don’t have the guts to admit that _you’re_ nervous! Jeez, chill…”

She hit him with a glare. “What would I be nervous about?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Joyce _Hopper_ , why don’t you tell me?” he rebutted.

“This is ridiculous…” she breathed, and turned her attention to her plate.

Her denial only stoked his annoyance a smidge higher. “Is it?”

“Yes, it is,” she snapped. “You’re so, uh, you’re so insecure that you blame it all on _me_!”

“Ouch, touché. Well, you know what? I’m not the one who married you; you are!”

“My God, you can be so infuriating!”

“Hey, don’t act like I didn’t warn you. Say hello to Mr. Grouchy!” he exclaimed, opening his arms wide, “he’s back, _thankyouverymuch_! Bet you’re wondering what you married yourself into now?”

“I didn’t marry this guy, I married my best friend, his name’s Jim Hopper. Know him?”

“Oh yeah, well, he’s not in right now. Would you like to leave a message? ’Cause it’s gonna take a while to extricate him from that one. Ready to entertain the idea of a divorce yet?”

“What…?” Her voice seemed to break a little. “On what grounds would I possibly divorce you?”

“Insanity? Grouchiness? What do I know? You’ll think of something,” he said more harshly than necessary again.

“No…”

Her sudden calm and whispered tone gave him pause. “What?”

“No.” She looked at him and reached out a hand. He extended his hand to her and she grasped it. “You’re right, I _am_ nervous.”

“Jesus Christ, I’m so sorry, Joyce…” He sighed, shaken at the despicable things his mouth could so easily utter without his brain’s say-so. “I’m nervous, too. Of course I’m nervous. I want so badly to impress and instead I…just—” The words died in his throat.

“What does it matter? The bottom line is—”

“But it does, Joyce; it does matter. And I can’t pretend to ignore the reason I’m so nervous… It’s because, you know, because it’s… _you_.”

She made an aww face, her heart in her glistening eyes. Pushing her chair back, she leaned over the table to kiss him.

She grabbed her burger again, and they ate in silence for a few minutes during which he stole glances at her now and again.

Yes, it was a big deal being with Joyce, and he’d treat her with all the respect she deserved. It was too soon to tell her that he was in love with her, and he certainly couldn’t ruin their _oh-so-blooming-slash-bickering_ relationship by saying the words now, but that much was obvious to him. Which was why what he’d told her earlier that morning still stood. She would sleep in her bedroom and he in his. As much as he wanted their relationship—their _marriage_ —to work, he wouldn’t let sex hijack their emotions and cloud their judgment. But for once, it wasn’t his lack of confidence speaking. Ironic as it was—once you thought about all the women he’d slept with—sex had never mattered that much to him, and whenever he’d met a woman, she usually ended up in his bed a few hours later and then she was always gone from his bed and his life by morning. But Joyce…she was the woman he wanted to share every detail of his life with. No screwing around; he wouldn’t mess this up.

“I know that this marriage thing is turning into a practical joke,” she said eventually, “but I do think there’s a great chemistry between us.”

He smiled. “Hey, I hate to say ‘I told you so.’”

“You don’t have to.”

“We do make one hell of a team though.” He paused. “Which is why I’m thinking I should find my own place to live. Mine and El’s.”

“What?”

“I’m not saying I’d go all the way back to Hawkins. Something nearby.”

“Enlighten me…”

“Honestly, you need to ask after what just happened? Well, because I don’t want to take you or your house for granted. Because I’m afraid to overstep whatever boundaries we have. Because I don’t want to show off with my neediness and lack of self-control—that’s something you should learn on your own…”

“Please, one ridiculous problem at a time,” she said, smiling, and scooted her chair close to his. “You know, Will could use a father figure now that Jonathan isn’t around much.”

He frowned. “Will?”

“Uh-huh.”

He raised his eyebrows. “You want me…to stay…because of Will?”

“Uh-huh,” she repeated with a small, uncertain voice. It sounded like a question.

“Joyce,” he said, using his deep voice.

“It’s kinda hard to be the head of the household in a house where you don’t live, mister,” she pointed out.

“Huh…”

Now that they sat next to each other around the table, she draped one arm around his shoulders, and took his hand with her other hand.

“Jim,” she said somewhat more gravely, “I never said I wanted you to move out. In fact, I don’t want you to—not until you’re ready to go back to work and support yourself, or until you drive me nuts, whichever one comes first. But _you have people who know what you’ve been through. You have people who care about you. Right here._ Ring any bells?”

“Yeah, sort of.”

“So here’s what we’re gonna do: we’re going to stop joking about our marriage—because we _are_ married—and we’re going to play the part because this at least feels right, don’t you think?”

“I do…” The two smallest words to have the greatest impact on two persons’ lives, and he might as well have said “I love you” because she then nodded fiercely and spoke louder than necessary.

“All right, so quit being silly and eat up,” she ordered.

“You’re not my mother,” he muttered under his breath.

“That’s right, and you are not my child!”

“Oh, for the sake of marital harmony,” he hissed jokingly, “stop being so cocky. You’re not the boss of me.”

She shot him a look of a teacher rebuking a pupil for raising something absolutely preposterous. He felt like sinking in his seat and disappearing under the table.

“Who am I kidding,” he smiled, “of course you are. Please don’t leave me…” he added with puppy dog eyes.

“Look at us; we already sound like an old married couple.”

“Well, good. That means sex is off limits.”

She chuckled. “Wh-what!?”

“Think about it. Now all we need to do is not have sex and just sit in bed fighting over what film to watch and eat burgers and—”

“Hop…”

“—and it’ll be like any other marriage.”

“I can’t believe we’re having this conversation right now,” she said, more to herself than to him, covering her face with both hands. “Jim, Jim!” she called, trying to stop him from saying more.

“What, Joyce?”

“Just…shut up and finish your food.”

He shook his head. “I can’t. I’m not used to such big portions anymore.”

The din of clattering plates and cutlery was suddenly stopped cold by the loud noise of something breaking and shattering on the tile floor, and Hopper jumped. His breath caught. His hand snapped reflexively and he fiercely gripped his knife and whirled around in his seat, pointing the blade in the direction of the crowd now laughing and clapping at the waitress who’d just dropped her tray.

He felt a hand on his forearm and he spun again, breathing hard. He made eye contact. Joyce. It was Joyce’s hand. _Jesus_. He held her gaze as she lowered his arm without a word and gently took the knife out of his hand.

He slowed his breathing and looked around. No one had noticed him losing control.

Hopper bent forward, elbows on the table as he tried to massage away the tension headache behind his temples, even while his pulse raced. “Jesus…”

“Relax, it’s okay… You’re safe. We’re safe.”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he said, sitting up and grabbing his beer to take a swig.

Joyce didn’t say anything, and when he put his beer down, he caught her staring, and the look in her eyes was worse than any words of concern she could have uttered. Her pale gaze held his. She didn’t smile or grimace, only looked deep in thought.

“I’m fine,” he repeated.

He scooted closer to her and wrapped his arms around her back and held her close while she clung to his shoulders, cradling his head and stroking his hair. After a moment, the light, fleeting caress of her lips replaced the warm pressure of her cheek against his, and he turned his face and swiftly lowered his lips to hers, his nose nuzzling hers. God, he loved her. He wasn’t an expert in etiquette and public displays of affection, but he slipped his tongue inside her mouth nonetheless, if only for an instant which effectively replaced every irrational fear with sweet tenderness.

She framed his face in her hands, her gaze capturing his.

“Well played, huh?” he quipped. “What you gotta do to kiss the girls these days…”

“It’s not funny,” she retorted.

“Oh, come on! Not even a little?”

“Not even a little.”

“Can you, um, not tell El about that little episode?”

“Don’t worry; I’m not one to kiss and tell.”

He shut her mouth with his again, and she let out another giggle and melted into his kiss.

After he’d let her pay and she’d told him that she had _inherited_ his cabin and money after the marriage—therefore he could still buy stuff without asking her if he needed anything or, say, invite her to the restaurant next time—Hopper pushed the door open, and let his hand rest on the small of her back as he followed her out. She loosely wrapped her worn red scarf around her neck while he put his hat and gloves on. The snow had started falling again.

He turned up her coat collar against the cold and scooped her up into his arms. “Well, that went well, didn’t it?” he said with a smile, looking down at her as she snuggled up against him. “Thanks for the meal, and for everything.”

“Thank _you_ ,” she replied.

“What a time to be alive,” he said as they walked hand in hand toward her car.

“You said it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter has a bit of mature content, so I'm contemplating changing the rating for the whole fic, or do you guys think a warning before the chapter will be enough? Again, thanks for reading! Love your comments and kudos!


	26. December 30th, 1985.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS CHAPTER IS RATED M FOR SEXUAL CONTENT.

##  **Monday, December 30th, 1985.**

The rest of the previous day and on Monday, the family tried to find their footing, tried to stop their hesitant tiptoeing around one another. They’d finished decorating the house; Joyce purposefully pinned the mistletoe at the entrance door but came up too short by several inches, so she’d called Hop for help and demanded a kiss in front of readily disinterested children. Stuck indoors because of the weather, they’d cooked—overcooked, burned and ruined food, really—played Monopoly and other games, listened and danced to the music of some of his own old records, and watched TV together. Hopper still wasn’t entirely comfortable displaying signs of affection in front of the kids, but he’d sneak kisses when no one was around, she’d pat a spot on the couch next to her thigh and when there was no room next to him she sat on the couch arm. He’d then act nonchalant when her hand lingered on his chest a second too long as she stood and left her spot, or when their paths crossed and she grabbed his fingers, and he soon realized she was making it every bit easier for him. For them to blend in.

Because Hop was still tired, Joyce hadn’t wanted him to drive all the way to Hawkins, but because the kids were excited about the New Year’s Eve, she’d come up with an idea. Nancy had called to confirm that they’d arrive the night of the 30th, and following Joyce’s advice she and Mike would pick up Murray on the way, so he would do most of the driving.

“Oh my God,” Mike said when he stepped into the living room and spotted Hopper, “you’re really here.”

“In the flesh,” Hopper replied, and before he could add another word the kid had crashed into his chest, knocking the air out of Hopper. He glanced over at Joyce who covered a fond smile with the heel of her hand. “Good to see you too, kid,” he said, patting the boy’s back.

It was almost midnight by the time the Wheelers and Bauman had arrived, and it was only when Joyce showed Murray to Hopper’s room that it hit him. While she’d had no rebuttal to his demand of sleeping alone the previous night, now she wouldn’t let him sleep with Bauman—and why would she?—so he’d have to sleep in Joyce’s _sacrosanct_ bed. _He would have to_ , he snorted. Like that was the worst thing that had ever happened to him.

He shot her a look, tucking the sweatpants he’d retrieved from now-Bauman’s room underarm and crossing his arms over his chest.

“What?” she asked genuinely.

“I thought that was my room.”

She pressed a finger onto his chest, looking up at him. “I have to say, you and El have the same ‘I’m gonna kill you’ look.”

“Aww, do we now?”

“Yes, dear; she looks more like you than you know. I usually make it go away with a kiss.”

He threw his head back. “Really, you little daredevil? Try me.”

More than happy to comply, she pecked his lips chastely, but he thought, _What the hell, kids are upstairs_. He bent down and inhaled sharply as he embraced her. He clutched her head in his hands, twined his fingers through her hair, pulled her to him, ran a hand up the back of her neck, and kissed her hard until they were interrupted by Bauman coming out of his room.

“For crying out loud, kids, get a room already,” he snapped.

“I almost missed you, Murray,” Hopper said, wrapping his arm around Joyce’s shoulders so they both faced Murray. “Almost.”

Joyce couldn’t quite suppress an amused smile. “Good night, Murray,” she said, and turned around, grasping Hopper’s hand and dragging him behind her up the stairs.

“Keep the volume low,” he called at their backs.

“I hate that guy,” Hopper muttered when they were in Joyce’s room.

“You don’t _hate_ him,” she replied with a smile, walking to her bed and picking up her sweatpants and t-shirt from under her pillow.

“I do.”

“Okay,” she mouthed as she stopped in front of him, waiting for him to move out of the way so she could open the door and head for the bathroom.

“I do,” he insisted.

“He just gets under your skin now and then, I get it… Hmm, wonder who that reminds me of…”

“Owie…” he grimaced with an exaggerated pained expression meant to mock Bauman. “You know, Joyce, I’m inclined to think that you tricked me into this after what I told you yesterday over lunch. And with all due respect, how are you going to make an honest man of me if you’re so subversive?” he said in her ear.

She looked up at him. “Jim, honey? and I mean this in the sweetest way possible, nobody’s gonna know just how _honest_ you are.”

“Oh my God, President Truman had it right: ‘If you can’t convince them, confuse them.’ Good to know. I’ll just keep you on your toes then.”

“Literally,” she agreed.

Joyce patted his arm gently and reached for the doorknob. “It was a spur-of-the-moment thing.”

“A spur-of-the-moment thing…”

“Yeah, the kids really wanted this party, I didn’t want you on the road… And, um, there’s more.”

He put his hand over hers on the knob. “What do you mean?”

“This is only the first batch of kids. Lucas and Dustin and Max should be here for lunch tomorrow. When they heard you were here, they wanted in too, and they had no plan for the New Year’s Eve.”

He narrowed his eyes, trying to look right through her. “Okay…? Who’s driving them?”

“Steve?” The inflection in her voice made it sound like she was asking his assent more than a statement.

He raised his eyebrows. “Steve?”

“And Robin?” she said with a small smile.

“Who’s _Robin_?”

“Oh, you met Robin, she was there that night at the mall. She’s Steve’s best friend. Steve is really great with the kids.”

“Uh-huh.”

She shrugged her shoulders and pursed her lips slightly, and he smiled, caught mid-breath by a familiar pang of affection. “Hey, ladies’ choice. Now let me go and brush my teeth.”

He opened the door for her and let her through beneath his arm.

Minutes later, they lay in bed next to one another. It was late and he was still behind on sleep, still weary from all the changes, but peaceful. He was on his back, his eyes closed and his left arm around Joyce’s shoulders. He stayed quiet, inhaling the scent of her hair, appreciating the sensation of her fingers on his skin.

“You know what’s missing?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

“Exactly.”

Soon enough, they drifted into sleep.

It was always variations of the same dream—a dream within the same haunting dream, really, there was no other way to describe the feeling.

There was the bright room, and two or three blurry and warped faceless men in lab coats and surgical masks towering over him and speaking with distorted voices. They glowed, somehow, with some sort of shadows around their halos.

He tried to scream, but most times, nothing came out of his mouth. When he sometimes did, it was variations of “Go to hell! You can all go to hell!” And when he did, he found himself in the bright room again.

“Where is she?”

_Fuck you_. “Who?”

“Joyce. Joyce Byers.”

“She’s gone. There’s no Joyce Byers anywhere anymore. Go on and check for yourselves.” _And, also, fuck you_.

“So, who has the girl?”

“I don’t know. How do you know about Joyce Byers?”

“Care to venture a guess?”

“I told you,” Hopper replied like an obedient kid.

“So where is she?”

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe you’re not looking hard enough.”

An order was given in Russian and Hopper was strapped to his bed, cool electrodes fixed to his temples with rubber bands while he barely resisted. He’d been drugged, stoned into submission. Sweat gathered at his forehead, and he remembered how the current entering his frontal lobe through electrodes would hurt. He was shouting now, his voice huge with confusion, fright, and rage, his body so tense at the abrupt electric shock that he wondered if it had petrified his every last muscle—he might try to anticipate the shock all he wanted, he’d never get ready enough to the horrible sensation. Then suddenly he was in this very dark place—far inside himself—and couldn’t breathe. Never would he try to reach out to Joyce when they were around. They might as well kill him.

“Go to Hawkins. Where is the girl named Eleven?”

“Joyce Byers’,” he said against his will through gritted teeth.

“Find her.”

“Gone. There’s…no…Joyce Byers.”

A hot surge of blood pounded into his temples, filling his brain with its loud, prolonged dinning. _Let me out, let me out, I want out. LET. ME. OUT. Sick of this shit_. He didn’t want to participate anymore. He wanted to resist. But this voice. This American voice. What did he want with El? It sounded personal.

Disorienting flashes of light slowly erased the darkness surrounding him, allowing him to get his bearings again, very little by very little. The lab.

_Hopper_ … she called. What? Where was she? She shouldn’t be around, not in the presence of these monsters. He ignored her.

Bright light in his eyes. One at a time, his eyes pried open. “He’s back.”

The other, the American, sighed and leaned forward over Hopper to check for himself. “Wipe the session off of his memory.”

“Wait,” Hopper called. Head and wrists and ankles were bound; he couldn’t move and tugged at the son of a bitch’s mask the way he would have liked. All Hopper had was his voice. “Tell me who you are.”

The man’s face was hovering over Hopper’s. He could _almost_ clearly see the upper half of his head: grey-whitish hair, furrowed forehead and a frown which overshadowed a focused pair of sharp, dark green eyes. He’d seen that face before, he was almost sure of it now—but he couldn’t place him. “Why would I do that?”

“Because, if I understand correctly, I’ll have forgotten it in less than five minutes.”

_Hopper_. Joyce again.

“Go away,” he screamed at her.

“Who are you talking to?”

“None of your fucking business. What’s your name?”

“Are you sure he’s back?”

“Um…I don’t know. It looks like it. It could be the LSD.”

“Shock him again.”

“It could kill him.”

“He’s talking to her,” the American argued. “Shock him.”

Hopper thrashed around with his hips and knees and shoulders, whatever he could still jerk, balled-up fists straining at the bindings, which did nothing to improve his plight or his headache. He hurt so much everywhere that he was nauseated and swallowed convulsively.

_Hopper_ , she called again. It was like she was in his fucking mind.

Before they shocked him again, he foolishly believed he could cover her voice with his shouts or that she would go away. So he screamed and screamed and screamed so much his shouts soon became choked up indecipherable words. Until he realized he was sleeping, dreaming, and that Joyce was calling him back to the present.

He gasped and met her gaze, momentarily blinded by the brightness of the room after the darkness he had been existing in. “Joyce,” he blurted, barely above a whisper, and felt a tear roll down from the corner of his eye.

“Hey…” she breathed as she lowered her face and snuggled it into his neck, as if it had taken her great efforts to bring him back to the waking world and she was exhausted, too.

He was covered with sweat again, and what’s more, covered with Joyce’s body. She lay on top of him, her cheek against his own as she soothed words into his ear. Her hands, which had apparently been pinning his own above his head, released him and moved to his shoulder and hair. He felt too numb to wrap his arms around her, to hug her back.

“Try to slow your breathing down, Hop; you’re hyperventilating,” she said softly as she slid off his chest, curling up against him on her side, her head by his shoulder.

He wanted to comply, but try as he might it was several moments before he calmed down enough to speak, before he cleared his mind a bit.

“He’s told me his name once,” Hopper said, still in a daze, the words struggling past his dry throat.

“Who?”

“The American in Russia. He’s lowered his guard down once and told me his name. I’m sure of it. They’re not dreams, Joyce…” His dreams—his nightmares or night terrors as Joyce called them—they weren’t dreams. They were real. They were Hopper’s repressed memories trying to resurface, he realized. And they would only stop when he’d regained what had been taken from him. But, Jesus, that was painful. When he moved his hands down to the curve of Joyce’s back, he realized he was shaking. God, what kind of trance state did she find him in whenever she woke him from his “dreams”? He was hurting physically with bruising force—everywhere. He wasn’t even in the mood to wash it off with a joke or a sarcastic comment. “I need…I need to go through the whole dream.” _Unwaken_ , he implied.

She sighed and covered her face with her hands.

“Oh God, did I hurt you again?” he asked, slowly propping himself up onto his elbow and leaning over her.

“No… No. I’m afraid, Hop.” She pursed trembling lips. “You-you scare me. Not in the sense that you’d hurt me, but because I don’t want you down that dark place on your own. I want to help and I can’t; and the more restless you are, the more helpless I feel.”

He sighed. “You’re not helpless,” he said, gathering her close. “On the contrary.”

“Remember when you told me you wanted me to feel safe?” she said softly, and he nodded. “It is important to me too that you feel safe...that you and El feel safe. I want you to feel like this could be your home.”

He smiled at her. “I do, Joyce. I’ve never felt more at home than I do right now. I just, um, I need to remember what’s been taken from me—if I did or said something.”

“How about…through hypnosis?”

“Maybe.” _Or through telepathy_.

“It’d be better than sleepless nights. If you were helped through this. These past six months were the hardest I’ve ever had to go through… I don’t-I don’t want to lose you again, I just can’t. I don’t know if my heart can pull through another heartache, and I know it may take time—”

“Shh…I know. I hear you,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her hair and moving his left arm to embrace her properly.

They fell into silence, his arms wrapped around her shoulders, holding her gently but firmly, his thumb roaming over the soft skin of her upper arm, her hand smoothly caressing his chest.

“One summer night,” Joyce said after a long moment, “two siblings—a girl who’s about six and her older brother who’s ten—are at a sleepover at their cousins’. The father and mother aren’t around much, trying to make ends meet however they can, and a sleepover at their cousins isn’t anything new, especially in the summer. But the next morning the kids wake up on stretchers in the hospital. The girl, she’s got no memory of what happened. All she sees are these incredibly bright lights and these sterile, white walls. She knows she must’ve put up a fight because there is a tube down her throat, but she doesn’t remember it. Her brother and two cousins are across the room, eyes closed, and for an instant she wonders whether they’re alive. Eventually, her dad bursts into the room, a terrified look on his face. Apparently, the girl’s heart stopped four times that night. It isn’t long until the kids find out that their aunt had tried to overdose them and her own children on her pills. It’s yet another decade before the little girl understands that the aunt may not have had the psychotic break everyone had assumed. She thought her husband was having an affair—which turned out to be true—and she was mad at him for drinking; she wanted to get back at him.”

“Whoa…” Hopper was speechless.

Joyce didn’t say more, she just planted a light kiss on Hopper’s chest, averting her eyes.

“It was you, wasn’t it? The little girl?”

She nodded. “Long before you and I met. Very few people know about my aunt Darlene. Thought I’d tell you something you didn’t know about me.”

“Thank you.”

“The last person I entrusted this story with threw it back at me, like, ten or fifteen years later to point out how crazy I was, so I’m hoping you’ll make better use of it.”

“Lonnie?” he ventured.

She nodded again.

He put his finger under her chin, tilting her face up to him. “News flash: we’re nothing alike.” _Don’t even get me started with this douche of a man_.

“I know that, Hop.”

He thought about how to best answer, wanting to let her know that he was thankful for her trust, but also that he would never ever judge her like her ex-husband used to—and possibly still did. He settled on, “It must have been pretty traumatic.”

“For my parents more so than for me,” she reflected. “But it obsessed me, you know? Even though I was pretty young at that time, I kept having this dream when I saw my heart stop and start again. I thought I was going crazy. I wanted so badly to remember how it happened…” She paused an instant.

“How did you remember?”

“I never did. Now my mind has associated this incident with our mother offering us a choice of peanut butter and jelly or grilled cheese for lunch, and me regretting my choice.”

He chuckled softly. “When is it not too soon to tell you I love you?” he asked, his breathing now even, and realized immediately afterward that he’d spoken out loud. “Sorry, that came out wrong.” _It wasn’t even supposed to come out at all_.

“It’s not…” she whispered, “not too soon.”

Noting the pink blush suffusing her cheeks, he said nothing, just held her in his gaze and in his arms, drinking her in. Eventually, he cradled her face in his hands lovingly and sensually tasted each of her lips.

She moved closer to him, her hand spreading wide on his stomach, to respond to his kiss. She kissed him, a light tease of her tongue against his own while her hand ran downward as she arched her body, suggestively grinding against him, her breasts crushing into his side. Her roving hand delved beneath the elasticized waistband of his sweatpants, nearing dangerously south with a pace that was lazily arousing, and he thought he might have stopped breathing. A wave of yearning swept over him.

“Joyce,” he groaned, grabbing her wrist.

Still, her fingertips tentatively lingered there before her hand gently closed in around the base of his penis. Her voice lowered one shade. “Shh… Do you trust me?” she whispered as the soft brush of her hand against this part of him hit him like a body slam.

“You know I do.”

She let her hand rest there for another second and he twitched involuntarily with anticipation. As though that was the green light for more, her hand glided up to the tip, squeezed gently, and glided back down.

“Oh, God.”

“Just relax.”

How the hell could he relax when she was doing this, exactly? He was growing hard, and his heart was banging against his chest. “You don’t have to do this. I’m not sure how that’s going to help my hyperventilating,” he murmured, throwing trying not to seem desperate right out the window.

One arched eyebrow rebutted his argument. “Don’t insult me, Hop. I don’t _have_ to do anything, no; I want to,” she whispered, stroking him and kissing his neck passionately. “And you’re not hyperventilating.”

He huffed out a self-deprecating laugh and shook his head. “It’s not what—” His words choked in the back of his throat. “Ha, Joyce,” he breathed.

She shushed him, stretching up to kiss him, and added, “Be quiet, the kids are just next door.”

Oh, Jesus Fuck, the kids were the least of his thoughts right now and he could barely bring himself to care. He found her mouth and claimed it with his own. Joyce had always had this wild, unpredictable energy about her, but she’d never outdone herself like that. This woman would never cease to amaze him.

She pulled his sweatpants down, licked her hand before returning it to his crotch. Looking down, he saw her hand around him. A vision of pure ecstasy that sent him nearly out of his mind with desire. He felt her nipples erect against his ribs and fought the urge to grip her, plant her onto his length, and suck her nipples—he hadn’t had sex in so long was his excuse for that thought, but it was nothing like how sweetly he wanted to make love to her. Instead, he framed her face with his hands and captured her mouth for a possessive kiss, thrusting his tongue past her lips, their ragged breaths combined in rhythm as she kept to her task at hand. Literally.

Without taking his lips off of hers, he slid his right hand down her neck and then past her breasts, tracing their outline, knuckles only brushing over the thin material of her t-shirt, and continued carving a path down her body until his hand cupped between her legs.

She pushed his hand gently. “No,” she whispered quietly in his mouth, “just let me…” She was not asking, not demanding; just letting him know.

“You...” he grunted in a whisper, his voice ragged with desire, “you’re not... you’re not-not playing fair.”

“Shh,” was all she replied.

He broke the kiss, his head thrown back in rapture against the pillow, and ran his hands through his hair, eyes squeezed closed. “God, Joyce…” he groaned, his voice hoarse, his heart about to explode, lust and desire and love choking and suffocating him, trying to breathe as she continued to assault on his senses. He didn’t know how long he could withhold his orgasm. Faster, slower, down his hard length. On the brink of orgasm, passion and intensity, a touch of desperation, all forged through the heat of his body, exposing him completely. “Stop. Joyce, stop or we’ll have to change the sheets.”

In reply, she pressed herself against him, raised one finger to his lips with her free hand. Her eyes had significantly darkened, bearing now the color of an unending well of lust. “Maybe I did push you away in the past. Don’t make the same mistake I did,” she whispered and squeezed and stroked him faster until she carried him over the sweet edge.

“Jesus, Joyce,” he whispered. Tremors shook his entire body and minutes filled with silence passed as she held onto him, toying with his hair, until his spasms slowly subsided.

His hands brushed over her cheekbones, lifting her face from his chest and forcing her eyes to look into his. “What was that for?”

“Do I need a reason?” she mused, arching an eyebrow for emphasis.

“No,” he conceded.

She smiled in order to dispel any concern. “Something else to remember those first nights together for. Peanut butter and jelly or grilled cheese…do you think you’ll regret your choice like I did mine?”

Out of all the things he might have expected her to say, that was completely off the mark. He tightened her close. “God, Joyce, thank God it’s not too soon.”

“I love you too.”

Their lips met again in the space in between them in a soft and slow kiss, and he raised his hand to her face, gently stroking her cheek with his thumb. Yielding lips drank hers in while his other hand abandoned her back to cup the back of her neck, fastening her mouth to his gently.

“Now I can die in peace,” he said with a fond smile, unable to tear his gaze away from her. “Please let my tombstone read: ‘Here lies the guy who found salvation after hearing Joyce Byers whispering to him she loved him too.’”

She rolled her eyes and slapped him playfully. “Go shower first, I’ll change the sheet.”

He inhaled sharply. “Ha! And they say romance is dead.” He removed his sweatpants and boxers before grabbing the sheet and getting out of bed, wrapping the sheet around his waist.

“Romance is not dead,” she called at his back, throwing him the filthy boxers he’d dropped in the process. “And it’s Joyce Hopper. Come on, catch up.”

“Both romance and my self-esteem are taking a serious hit today.”

She smiled at him and he exited to the bathroom.

After he’d quickly showered and she’d changed the sheet, they resumed their positions in the bed and tried to go back to sleep. He brushed her hair from her face, his fingers weaving softly through her hair. She lay against him, a calm breath touching his shoulder, her eyes closed as he let the tip of his fingers slowly trace the outline of her lips. The previous months had gone by in a dire entourage of frustration, heartache and pain, but if there ever was a reason to be happy about spending months in a hellish cell in Russia and being repeatedly tortured, he was looking at her.

His breathing full and peaceful, he basked in the dizzy thrill of being near her, and also, the rightness of it. He’d marry her on the spot if they weren’t already—and another time ago she’d have responded with a shocked gape and possibly a smack, too. Not anymore. What a lucky bastard he was. He almost felt like a fraud. Almost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter might take a few days to be delivered, but be patient, it's a long 10k+(and counting)-word one...:)  
> Again, kudos and comments appreciated :D


	27. December 31st, 1985.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopper’s point of view. Again. Originally, chapters 25 through 27 were just going to be one chapter, hence the focus remaining on Hopper’s thoughts three chapters in a row.  
> Anyway, it's finally over; hope it was worth the wait :)

## Tuesday, December 31st, 1985.

When Hopper was ushered into consciousness again, it was to the voice of Eleven.

“Hop,” El said. “It’s past twelve, wake up, everyone’s arrived and they’re dying to see you.”

Slits of light peeked through the window, washing over him. Dozing with his arm slung over his eyes, he raised his forearm slightly and cracked his eyes open just briefly enough to see his daughter sitting on the bed and shaking his shoulder gently, and Joyce resting a hand on the girl’s shoulder. Joyce was probably here to keep his daughter safe from Hopper’s recent penchant for wanting to strangle whoever freed him from his plagued slumber, whoever shook him out of his agitated dreams which consumed him like a tumor, eating his mind from the inside out…

He looked into Joyce’s eyes for a second, a furrow forming on his brow. Had he been screaming again? Before he could verbalize anything, Joyce shook her head slightly with a reassuring smile.

He glanced at Eleven. “The name is Dad,” he groaned, pressing the tips of his fingers into the sockets of his eyes as though that would help bring himself to the immediate moment faster.

“ _Dad_ ,” she repeated in a tone of resignation, and he could hear her eyes rolling.

“Who’s arrived?” he asked, his voice hoarse and tired.

“Everybody,” she sighed with impatience as if the answer was plain as day.

“I told you last night, remember?” Joyce prompted from behind. “Dustin, Lucas, Max, Steve, and Robin.”

He sighed. “All right, all right already…” Managing to actually catch some zzz’s in between his chronic bouts of insomnia was quite the trick, and he wondered, not for the first time, if he wouldn’t feel less tired if he stopped trying so hard to sleep. “I’ll be down in five.”

He took a quick shower, trying to get rid of the look of sleep deprivation and distress he’d just seen in the mirror, wishing the daunting dreams that still haunted the cortex of his brain back to oblivion where they belonged. Funny how he slept better when he was captive—drugs had that power, that wasn’t exactly news to him. Though funny wasn’t the right word, really, not even close. Now his limbs were stiff with restless discomfort, but it didn’t bother him nearly as much as his throbbing headache.

He casually dressed—he’d made a mental note that neither El nor Joyce had dressed for the party yet.

Moments later, Hopper noticed a homemade banner painted in a riot of colors at the top of the stairs. “To new beginnings! (Welcome back, Hopper),” it proclaimed, hanging awkwardly across the two windows facing the snowy driveway. The rectangular table had been dressed with a festive red tablecloth. Pushed against that same wall, it was covered with trays of meats, cheeses, veggies, and fruits and also cups as well as an assortment of chips and crackers and dips.

“Son of a bitch!” Steve exclaimed at the sight of Hopper on the upper floor landing. Joyce clicked her tongue. Steve glanced at Joyce while the others laughed. “Sorry!” He looked back toward Hopper. “Well, son of a _something_ , I guess. If this isn’t the beloved Hawkins Chief of police.”

“All right…” Hopper smiled, raising his hands and drawing his attention to the newcomers as all eyes turned on him, then he slowly descended the stairs while the guests rose from their seats in the living room, whooping.

Hopper scratched his chest. “I’m flattered—and quite frankly a bit frightened too—so you all take a good look, pinch yourselves or whatever you deem necessary, and move on to something else.”

He hugged each and every one of them warmly, and each and every one of them had a kind word for him. It touched him more than he cared to admit. It was strange to be suddenly reunited with so many friendly faces—almost as if in a vision, as if the familiar walls of his old house surrounded him again—and so loquacious, too. He glanced over at Joyce who hung in the back, watching the euphoric gathering unfold from a distance, her gratitude shining in her watery eyes as she quietly smiled into her hand.

“Did you time travel?” Dustin wondered. “You look ten years younger!”

“It’s true, Jim,” Murray mused, “I’m kind of jealous.”

“I, um— Why are these kids having beer?” Hopper asked, pointing at the bottles in the eldest’ hands. He wanted to redirect the attention elsewhere but also…had he been gone for longer than he’d known?

“Guilty as charged, Chief,” Joyce said. “I prefer them knowing they can drink in my presence rather than them getting drunk behind my back at the first chance they get because it’s forbidden fruit.”

“Murray’s saving the vodka for later,” Jonathan said.

“Got plenty to celebrate,” Steve offered, and raised his beer in a toasting gesture, hitting it gently against Robin’s.

“Too early for champagne?” Joyce said with a smile. “Asking for a friend.”

“Probably not, but I’ll grab some coffee first,” he said and shambled off to the kitchen to seek a much-needed wake-up call to run through him in liquid form, the remnants of his nightmare still clinging to him like shadows. Caffeine would be necessary to get through the day.

Max and Lucas were there, sitting opposite at the table and arm wrestling. “Hopper!” they both exclaimed when he came in, but his entrance didn’t stop them from continuing their little contest.

“Hey,” Hopper replied with a tight-lipped smile.

The smell of cooked eggs and bacon, possibly waffles, too, lingered in the room, and various colors of paint bottles had been lined up and dirty plates piled up next to the sink on the otherwise tidy countertop.

“You’re gonna brood over this for weeks again,” Max said warningly at Hopper’s back.

“I can beat you,” Lucas said decisively, and Hop wondered who the kid was trying to convince; himself or his friend. Hopper pursed his lips and blew a silent whistle.

He spotted the coffeemaker, poured himself a mug. It was a dark, strong brew, and smelled great. His lips twitching with amusement, he turned back to the kids and leaned against the counter, settling in to watch. Mornings were, after all, for coffee and contemplation, and by most standards, it was still early enough.

If he had to choose, he’d bet on the girl; first because she was a girl and he always preferred the weak and freaks and outsiders—something that had surely started with Joyce back in the day—and second because he did like Max, even if he didn’t know her as much as he should have, since she was his daughter’s best friend. She definitely had his vote on their little challenge.

Hopper brought the hot mug of coffee to his lips and watched them.

Max’s and Lucas’s clasped hands were barely moving; you had to wonder if they were playing at all.

Dustin entered the kitchen and pushed himself up to sit on the counter next to Hopper. “Lucky you, coffee and a live show,” the kid said. “How long?”

“Hmm… Five minutes, give or take,” Hopper replied.

“Oh, it’s only just started—good!”

Hopper and Dustin folded their arms over their chests, eyes intent on the players.

“Who are you rooting for?” Hopper asked eventually.

“Oh, Mad Max, no doubt. You?”

“Same,” Hopper said, wondering about the “Mad” addition to her name but not asking. Dustin offered him his hand. Hopper shook it and hopped up next to the kid on the counter as both resumed their crossed-arms, crossed-ankles, deep-in-concentration stances.

Max clenched and unclenched her hand over Lucas’s with a smug smile on her face. “You can let go whenever you get tired, Lucas.”

“In your dreams.”

After another minute, Mike and El came in, holding hands. “Again?” Mike said in disbelief when he saw his friends at the table.

Eleven gave him a puzzled look, and Dustin provided an explanation: “They’ve been at it all fall.”

“Their record is thirteen minutes and thirty-seven seconds,” Mike said to El. “Did you time them?” he added to Dustin.

Dustin shook his head. “I missed the beginning,” he replied as Mike and El came to watch the game from the other side of Hopper, Mike setting the timer running on his watch and then both of them crossing their arms, too, leaning forward on their thighs like the diligent pupils they must have been in Mr. Clarke’s class.

“Don’t you guys have anywhere else to be?” Lucas whined.

“Nope,” they all responded.

“Where’s the popcorn when you need it?” Dustin joked.

Robin and Steve then joined the show—the kitchen would soon need a “Sold Out” sign.

“Oooh-aah! Arm wrestling,” Robin cheered, clapping her hands with excitement.

“Oh, come on!” Lucas exclaimed in exasperation.

Steve crossed his arms and comfortably leaned against the wall. Robin stepped sideways to stand next to her friend. She bumped her shoulder into his. “I’d so take you down at this,” she said, her gaze on the contestants, and crossed her arms over her chest, too.

Steve looked at her, honest-to-god nonplussed, then snorted. “Right.”

Her jaw dropped, forming an ’o’ of astonishment. She huffed and raised her hands helplessly, looking over at Dustin for support.

“She totally would, dude,” Dustin interjected, and Robin nodded approvingly and glanced back at Steve.

Steve frowned and grimaced. “She would _not_.”

“Don’t make me do a ’You rule, You suck’ board, dingus,” she admonished and Steve gave her his most wounded look, “’cause you know where the mark’s gonna end.”

“You would _not_ beat me at this,” Steve insisted, his voice loud and high-pitched. “Come on, Robin, be serious a minute!”

“Fine, Harrington, you’re next,” Robin said calmly, and outstretched her arms, rolling her wrists. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Fine,” Steve said, grumpy.

“Yay,” Dustin said, then at Lucas and Max: “Come on, guys, wrap it up, we’ve got another match coming.”

They all parked their weighty stares on Max and Lucas again, but their interest had moved on to what was coming up next. The kids gathered around now seemed more eager for the game to be over than to know whoever got the upper hand in this current contest.

Hopper moved his gaze to the two elder kids. In truth, he barely knew the Harrington kid and he’d only ever met Robin once, but their little interaction reminded him of a thirty-year-old or so version of Joyce and himself, and he found himself looking at them with a pang of nostalgia. Joyce would have been the kind to dare him just like Robin had Steve. And Hopper would have snorted too. Not to sound sexist or anything, but he was pretty sure he’d have beaten Joyce. She may have already been the strong and determined woman she’d become, but she’d also still been this petite thing you wanted to hold and protect. And he’d been an athletic young man in the prime of his life. However, he wouldn’t take his chances with her today.

“Nervous?” Robin teased Steve whose far-away gaze was fixated on the table.

Steve pivoted his face to her, the rest of his body absolutely still. He shot her a cross look that could have melted the ice outside, and Hopper couldn’t suppress a fond smile for the pair. He hid it behind the last sip of his coffee and pushed his empty mug behind him.

“Come on, Lucas!” Mike exclaimed, taking Hopper out of his musings.

“Go, Max!” Dustin and El said. “Finish him off,” El added.

Hopper arched a brow at his daughter, and she smiled sheepishly.

Max was indeed getting closer to put an end to Lucas’s torture.

All the cheering shouts had a magnetic effect on Murray, Joyce, Will, Nancy and Jonathan who poked their heads through the doorway with quizzical expressions.

“What’s going on?” Joyce asked.

“Arm wrestling contest,” Mike said, not looking at them.

“Steve and Robin are coming up next,” Dustin added.

“Why?” Nancy asked, dubious, looking at Steve.

“Why not?” Steve answered.

“Who cares why?” Jonathan said, gently prodding Nancy inside the kitchen. “Make room, you guys.” They moved next to Mike and El while Will sat next to Dustin after pushing some dirty plates into the sink, and they all sat crammed like sardines.

“Who else is playing?” Joyce asked to no one in particular.

“That’s it, just Steve and Robin,” El said.

“Unless you want to challenge Hopper,” Dustin prompted.

_No thanks,_ sneaked into Hopper’s thoughts. Of course that would come up. Hopper looked down at the kid. “Thanks.”

“Pleasure.”

Hopper lifted his gaze to meet Joyce’s eyes. He smiled and shook his head. “You have nothing to prove to anyone, least of all me,” he said as she walked toward him. “I already know you’re stronger than me.” Maybe not physically, but he meant it in every other way.

She stepped in between his legs, her back to him. “Do you?” she said, directing her attention at Max and Lucas.

“Way to go, Max!” Dustin shouted when the girl finally slammed Lucas’s fist onto the table.

“Next time, loser,” Max said.

“Nine minutes since I started the timer,” Mike said. He let go of El’s hand and walked behind Lucas, patting his shoulders. “That could have been a new record.”

Max and Lucas rose from their chairs as Steve and Robin moved in, and Joyce turned around to face Hop.

“You don’t know,” Joyce said.

“I don’t know what?”

“Who’d win.”

“Joyce, who cares? I’m not arm-wrestling with you!”

“Why not?”

“Because!”

“You scared?”

He arched a brow. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, come on, it’ll be fun!”

“Come on, dingus,” Robin called, ignoring the adults’ little argument. She patted the chair Max had just vacated. “You’re up.”

“Men don’t do it for fun; they do it for pride,” Murray commented, and Hopper shot him a look. “Of course, that only applies if the man wins.”

“So?” Joyce asked Hopper.

“So,” he said, drawing out the word with vague amusement, “turn around.” He turned her shoulders around so that they were both facing the next challengers, “and be quiet, I want to watch this,” he added.

“This conversation isn’t over,” Joyce said over her shoulder.

Hopper playfully covered her mouth with his palm, then released it and rather than crossing his arms again, he wrapped them around her torso so as to pull her to him. “I said, Quiet,” he said in her ear, and she reflexively took hold of his forearms as she comfortably settled against him.

“Does this count as a fistfight?” Steve asked, sitting down and clapping his palm against Robin’s.

“Nope, but that can be arranged afterwards,” Robin said, clasping Steve’s hand tight.

Dustin stepped in and lay his hand on top of them to signal the start of the contest. “You know I love you both,” he said. “Whatever happens next.”

“Oh, because you’d win a fistfight against me too?” Steve asked Robin, ignoring Dustin.

“If I am to trust your track record, it’s not against all odds.”

“Like I’d ever raise my hands to you.”

“Focus, guys,” Dustin said. “One fight at a time. Mike, timer ready?”

Mike nodded.

“Well, I knew you were a nice guy, Harrington. Good luck,” she said.

An angry squint of his eyes, he sent a forced smile her way. “Thanks, you too.”

“Arm wrestlers, ready? Set? Go!” Dustin said, releasing Steve and Robin’s clasped hands, and Mike pressed a button on his watch.

As soon as Dustin’s hand flew up, Robin tipped Steve over easily, pinning his fist onto the table with a loud _Smack!_

“Son of a bitch!” Steve exclaimed, wincing, slamming his left palm on the table and waving his right hand up and down in a hurt gesture.

“One second,” Mike tuned in, “we’ve got a new record!”

“I wasn’t ready!” Steve shouted. “I want a rematch.” He rolled up his right sleeve.

“Round two!” Dustin called, swiveling around like a judge surrounded by a great audience attentive to his decisions, and bade the crowd to quiet their cheering down.

“You sure?” Robin said. “Your reputation is still safe with one loss—well, not safe exactly, but it could take a serious hit if you keep playing.”

“Yeah,” Jonathan said, “your reputation is safe with us.”

Nancy shoved Jonathan lightly. “Go, Steve!”

“Team Steve!” Hopper chimed in, raising his hand for Nancy to high-five him.

“Go, Robin!” Joyce cheered.

Steve grabbed Robin’s hand, she gripped back, and he brought her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. Then he sent her a defiant look and said, “Let’s do this rematch.”

“Okay. Up to you, babe.”

Dustin put his hand over theirs again. “On your marks…”

“It’s not a race, knucklehead,” Steve said.

“You just focus,” he countered, bringing two fingers in front of his eyes and motioning them to Robin’s. “That’s your one and only task.”

She winked at Steve. “Focus, Champ.”

“Get set…” Dustin continued. “Go!” and he jerked his hand up in the air again.

This time, their hands remained in the starting position, although quivering slightly.

“Go, Robin!” Joyce called out.

Hopper covered her mouth again. “No disturbance of the game, Joyce,” he whispered in her ear.

Chuckling softly, she gripped his hand, removing it from her mouth, and took his other hand which was wrapped loosely around her shoulders, and she brought them down to her stomach so that he embraced her properly from behind. She leaned her head back against his shoulder.

Robin and Steve were still attempting to force the other’s hand down onto the table. Hopper had to admit that Robin looked less uncomfortable than Steve who was tense from gritted teeth to slightly skippering shoe.

Robin seemed to notice from the corner of her eye. “Don’t move your feet, honey,” she said. “You know playing footsie won’t work on me.”

“Stop talking, Buckley; you know _honey_ ing won’t work on me.”

“Uh-oh, squabbling couple,” Murray said.

“Oh no!” Steve scowled. “We’re not a couple.”

“Huh, where have I heard that before?” he faux wondered, and deliberately turned his face to stare at Nancy and Jonathan, then to Hopper and Joyce. “Oh yeah, I remember.”

“We’re not a couple,” Robin confirmed.

“Sure you’re not, darling. But let me wish you the best of luck in all your endeavors anyway,” Murray added nonetheless.

Steve shook his head at Robin as if to say, “Forget it.”

Eventually Steve managed to force Robin’s arm down. The back of her wrist still on the table, he stared at his opponent. “And now we’re even,” he said with a satisfied smile through the din of cheers and oohs.

“Not bad, Harrington.”

He unclasped her hand and pushed himself off the table to stand.

“Final round!” Mike called.

“What?” Steve said. “No, _you_ come and compete.” But Robin was still sitting. She shrugged at him in a “Why not?” gesture when he met her gaze. He extended his hand to her. “Come on, we’re done.”

“What’s one more round?” Robin asked.

“You’ve got one win, we should stop here,” Steve argued.

“You say I’ve got one win like you’ve done me a great favor.”

“I am doing you one now. Get up,” he said, disinterested.

“Sit,” she ordered, pointing at the chair opposite her.

He shrugged, and then complied. “Everyone remember that I offered her an honorable out,” he said, looking around at the spectators while Robin yanked his arm, crunched his hand, and gave it a harsh tug as she positioned her elbow on the table.

Steve redirected his attention to Robin. “Easy there, tiger,” he said as he engaged in a game of daring stares with her.

“This game’s almost a mating ritual, isn’t it?” Murray asked to no one in particular, and Robin huffed.

“All right, folks,” Dustin said, putting his hand atop theirs again, “this will be the final round for these participants.”

The starting protocol began for the third time. Steve and Robin kept their gazes locked on one another; the muscles in their arms bulging under their clothes were the only sign that the kids were doing something else entirely. For some reason, this was more than just arm wrestling to them, and the spectators all sensed the energy emanating from the two. For the first time, the kitchen was as silent as a church.

Slowly but surely, Steve was pushing Robin’s hand down. He was close to winning when all of a sudden the situation reversed and in one swift movement, Robin smacked Steve’s hand on the table. Before anyone in the audience had time to congratulate the winner, Robin dropped his hand and jumped to her feet.

“You let me win!” she shouted madly.

Steve got up too and reached out his right hand. “No, I didn’t. Well played.”

She crossed her arms over her breasts, refusing his offered hand. “You did. There was no more resistance.”

“I had a cramp,” he protested. “I didn’t let you win.”

She turned to the judge. “He’s lying. I refuse this win.”

Words of response hung in Dustin’s throat, unuttered. He was speechless; he turned to Steve, then back to Robin.

Hopper smiled. Steve _was_ lying. He’d let her win, and refused to admit it. Cute. Hopper liked the kid more and more. He gently pushed Joyce forward and slid off the counter to intervene.

“You won, Robin,” he said, and took her hand to reunite it with Steve’s. “Cramps happen. Congratulations.”

Steve shook her hand and Hopper gave a friendly pat on the boy’s back. Then he turned around to the crowd. “All right,” he said, smacking his own hands together, “show’s over,” he concluded and quickly scuttled from the kitchen.

“Not so fast,” Joyce called at his back.

Within a couple of seconds, she’d trotted in front of him and was blocking his way to the living room, hands on her hips.

“Where are you going?”

“I was going to grab something to eat, but I’m sensing there’s something a lot less fun for me to do here?” Hopper smiled, but judging by Joyce’s guarded expression, he gathered that humor wasn’t going to cut it this time. He dropped his head with a sigh, and lifted it back up, inhaling. “Joyce,” he said, his voice low, “I’m _not_ arm-wrestling with you—”

“Because…?”

“—but if you keep forcing my hand, I’ll have to wrestle you,” he continued, and without letting her answer, he grabbed her hips and pulled her up and ran into the living room with his wriggling prize scooped over his shoulder.

He flopped a giggling Joyce down on the couch. “I’m not wasting more muscle flexes on you.”

“Oh my God,” El laughed at his back.

Hopper turned around. “Greco Roman wrestling anyone?” he asked, laying his arm over El’s shoulders. “Or better yet, does Will the Wise know about a sword stuck in a stone somewhere so that we could try to pull it out?”

“Sorry,” Will said, smiling. “But I lost my Gandalf wand—we can have a scavenger hunt.”

“Good idea,” Mike said, “but what’s in it for the winner? We need prizes.”

“And a board to keep track,” Robin said.

“Obviously,” Steve said.

“I’ve got a white board,” Jonathan said. “Up in my room.”

“Of course you do,” Steve muttered.

“Give me,” Robin said, and grabbed Jonathan’s arm, pulling him toward the stairs. “I’m just borrowing him,” she told Nancy over her shoulder.

Nancy waved at Robin like it was no problem, and crossed to Steve, stopping by his side. “This Robin, she’s something.”

Steve looked at her, then back over at the staircase where Robin and Jonathan had just disappeared. He nodded, a soft smile on his lips. “You have no idea,” he said, and walked over to where Hopper stood at the food table.

“So?” Hopper asked, his voice low and confidential as Steve was contemplating chips or cheese. “You get cramps often?”

Steve did a double take, then smiled. He looked behind him, making sure Robin hadn’t returned yet, then said, “Only with stubborn friends.”

Hopper squeezed his shoulder. “Smart move, kid,” he said, before popping a small cube of cheese into his mouth and moving away.

Hopper unceremoniously slumped onto the couch next to Joyce, pulling her legs out of his way and resting them in his lap, and watched Lucas and Dustin get into an argument about some girl named “Suzie” who would find couples arm-wrestling absolutely preposterous, and Mike and El joined in next to Dustin. Hopper let his head fall to one side and his eyes met Joyce’s, shining with leftover mirth. “So, what’s the plan for today?”

“Well, given that it’s snowing again and I don’t want all these people dripping in the house, it’s indoors activities only.”

“Indoors activities?”

“You know, games, music, nothing crazy.”

“Nothing crazy? That sounds like the strangest thing ever.”

Joyce turned her face to him and patted his thigh sympathetically.

“Hey, fine with me,” Hopper said.

“The kids mentioned wanting to watch a movie so we might have to move the TV in one of the kids’ bedrooms. Speaking of, they need to settle everyone in the different rooms for the night—maybe the girls in El’s room, the party with Will, and Steve and Jonathan…I’m not sure exactly how they want to figure out their sleeping arrangements.”

“We’ve got a board!” Robin called triumphantly from the top of the stairs.

“If they even want to sleep,” Hopper muttered, looking at Robin barreling down the stairs happily with her board.

“In any case, we can also finish preparing the food and do a bit of decorating. I still have a lot of Christmas lights somewhere.”

Robin had placed the board on a chair pushed against the wall and was writing everyone’s name in different columns. She then drew two small sticks: one under Max’s name, and another under her own. “All right, everyone,” she called, capping her marker, “the one who finds the Gandalf wand gets a point.” She pointed to Hopper and Joyce with the marker before slipping it into the back pocket of her jeans. “In the meantime, you figure out some prizes. That is, if you don’t mind.”

“That’s fine,” Joyce replied, smiling.

“And go!”

All the kids ran up the stairs, screaming and almost knocking Murray off his feet as they bounded past him. He sat on the coffee table facing Hopper and Joyce. “Kids… They’re going to overrun your house, Joyce.”

“What else is new?” She tossed him a look of detached sympathy.

“You tell me…” Murray said in a gossipy tone, twining his fingers together.

Hopper glanced at Joyce who was staring toward the stairs, then slapped his hands on his knees and got up. “Nothing,” he said, patting Murray’s shoulder. “Come give me a hand with the TV.”

“You know,” Murray said lightly as he stood to follow Hopper, “there’s an actual way to attest to the existence of order and chaos in the universe… And these kids are proof of it.”

While Hopper and Murray moved the TV and VCR to Will’s bedroom—witnessing with creeping horror one of the worst pillow fights in history—Joyce had brought in box after box of Christmas lights. If they were the lights Joyce had bought back when Will went missing, Hopper was surprised she’d kept them all this time. But then again, knowing Joyce, Christmas lights were Christmas lights, and her son had been saved after all.

“Need a hand with these?”

“Yeah,” she replied, bent over and rummaging through the boxes, “I’m thinking we could do some kind of a—” She leaned back up, and stopped short when she spotted something on his shoulder. She took it between her fingers. “What’s this?”

He took the small white feather from her fingers. “Murray and I fell under attack… Are all your pillows filled with feathers?”

“You’re kidding!”

He shook his head. “There’s a great battle going on upstairs. Those kids are vicious.”

“Who’s winning?” Joyce asked with sudden interest.

He furrowed his brows and thought about it. “Probably the girls.”

She smiled, thoughtful. “But they’re outnumbered…” And without another word she was taking the stairs two at a time.

“You think we should join the military and stage a surprise attack?” Murray wondered, looking up the stairs.

“Girls against boys?” Hopper asked in awe. “I haven’t lost so much of my mind not to know to stay out of it.”

He kneeled next to the boxes and began untangling the multicolor light strings.

“So, Jim, how’ve you been?”

“What’s the expected answer for this question?” Hopper replied with a smile.

“There’s no expected answer, my friend.” Murray returned Hopper’s smile. “I’m not making small talk, I’m just—”

“I know, Murray,” Hopper said, cutting him off. He stood again, looked the other man in the eye, and hugged him, patting his shoulder. “And I haven’t properly thanked you for everything you did.” Hopper pulled back. “And, well, apologized for compromising your house. Joyce told me you had to move—I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about that. That was like eons ago.”

“Still.”

“I said, Forget it,” Murray insisted. “So…how’s life treating you?”

“I’d say life took a turn for the best.”

“So, what’s the deal with you and Joyce?”

Hopper’s eyes widened with surprise at Murray’s forwardness, a slight smirk curving upon his lips. “Don’t ask me,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ve only read the condensed version of that book.”

Murray snorted. “Don’t sweat it, Jim.” Murray studied him a second, then nodded knowingly. “Torn off those clothes yet?” he asked with a wink.

“Just when I thought I could actually like you…”

“You did, didn’t you?” Blunt Murray was at it again, smiling and most likely not willing to give up any time soon.

Hopper resumed untangling the lights. “You need to learn when to shut up, Murray.”

“She looks happy, you look happy—”

“So that means we’ve had sex?”

“Duh.”

Hopper rolled his eyes. Suddenly, Joyce, Robin, Jonathan, and Steve came hurtling down the stairs, shrieking. Hopper stood next to Murray and then flattened against the wall to let the human hurricane come through and go out to the kitchen.

Hopper and Murray looked at each other in question—“See? She’s happy,” Murray said—then they slowly ambled to the kitchen.

“Got them!” Jonathan said, slamming a drawer shut and holding a small bag filled with multicolor stuff up like a trophy before rushing to where the other three were waiting elbow to elbow, facing the sink.

All four had white feathers all over their hair and other parts of their bodies. Hopper came up short when he tried to envision the chaos upstairs.

“What’s going on?” Hopper asked at their backs.

They all laughed and giggled.

“Paint balls,” Robin said over her shoulder.

Hopper looked over at Murray. Had he got that right? “Paint balls?” he mouthed with a frown, feeling like he had just walked into a movie that had already started.

Murray shrugged his shoulders.

“Um, guys?” Hopper said tentatively. “Paint balls?” _Was this woman game for anything?_

“Yes!” Joyce said through bursts of laughter without so much as a backward glance. _It seemed like it._ Then again, she’d been game for anything back when they were kids, too.

He felt like it was his duty to ask anyway: “This is your idea of indoor activities?”

“Oh no, we’re taking this outside!”

“Taking this outside…” Hopper echoed back at her.

“And you’re in, too.”

He pursed his lips, still not entirely sure she wasn’t kidding. Other than the indoor activities, she’d also mentioned “nothing crazy.” Then again, who was he to judge? The thin barrier between sane and crazy had been breached a long time ago. Most likely it was a bridge, not a barrier. And besides, ever since he’d known her, Joyce had been willingly rejecting the norms in every possible way and equally ignoring everyone else’s opinions.

“This should be interesting,” Murray said, rubbing his hands together.

“You’re in for it too, Murray,” Jonathan said.

That gave him pause. “Woo freaking hoo,” Murray said, and Hopper could relate.

Hopper and Murray looked at each other and walked over to where the line of conspirators stood. They peered over their shoulders. Robin and Jonathan were prying inflatable balloons open while Steve and Joyce were squeezing the paint bottles upside down to fill them up. Then they knotted them and dropped them in the sink. Repeat. This was going to be nasty. Maybe Dustin had been right; maybe they’d all time traveled back ten or twenty years. Except, back then, Hopper would never have squandered any chance of having fun.

“Joyce,” Hopper said, feeling like he had to play a somewhat responsible adult here, “we’ve got six kids, four young adults, three grown adults, and two showers. I’m not sure I’ve done the math right, but I think something could go very wrong here…”

“Not necessarily; men in one bathroom, women in the other. Like at the pool,” Robin offered, and Hopper eyed the back of her head dubiously, debating this baffling matter with himself.

Steve nudged Robin’s side, making both their hands move and the paint roll outside the balloon.

“This isn’t a pool house,” Hopper said, but Robin’s attention was back on Steve.

“ _Aim_ at the hole, Harrington. Come on, it can’t be that hard; surely you’ve done this before.”

“I get the joke—sophisticated as it is. But that’s gross, Robin,” Steve said with a scornful look, picking up on the not-so-subtle subtext. He lowered his face to her. “Below-the-belt jokes are a no-no. Especially with people around, seriously.”

“I think I’m ready for that vodka,” Murray declared and turned on his heels.

“I think I’ll join you,” Hopper said and followed.

After Murray had withdrawn his bottle from the natural fridge that was the snowy porch, he rejoined Hopper in the living room and poured two glasses.

“Nostrovia!” Murray clicked his glass against Hopper’s, and immediately grimaced, regretting his choice of word. “Sorry. Cheers!”

“Cheers!” Hopper said, trying to embolden his expression as he brought the glass to his lips.

They threw back a healthy gulp, with Hopper swallowing half the contents and Murray emptying his glass and letting it clatter on top of the coffee table. Hopper grunted; he hadn’t had something that strong in however-many-days-it’d-been and it burned the back of his throat with surprising force, warming his blood in an instant.

“Another?” Murray asked, his hand already closing in around the bottle.

“Let me finish this one up first.”

The sounds of the battle raging above them had yet to let up: shrieks, thumps, and bursts of giggling were still echoing down from the second floor, and Hopper could just imagine the bedrooms lost in a gigantic blizzard of feathers. The epic pillow fight seemed to have lasted about a half hour—and counting—and would surely go down in history. Especially when you knew that it was soon going to morph into another level as a messy paintball fight—pick your weapon of choice…

“Ambush! Retreat, retreat!” Hopper recognized Dustin’s voice.

_“Maxwatchoutbehindyou!”_ El shouted just as Joyce and the paintball crew reentered the living room with satisfied grins plastered on their faces.

Jonathan cupped his hands around his mouth and called: “Guys! We’ve got the new ammo ready!”

“Thanks for inviting me over, Mrs. Byers,” Robin said while waiting for the other kids to come rushing down, “I’m having a great time.”

“Oh you’re very welcome, honey. You’re a great addition to the group, we need strong-willed women like you. And please call me Joyce.”

“Or Mrs. Hopper,” Murray said absentmindedly. He snapped his head up, apparently stunned that he’d said that out loud.

“You can’t help yourself, can you, Murray?” Hopper said, defeated.

Murray looked at the stunned faces around him, then at Hopper. “They didn’t know?” he asked, dumbfounded.

_For the love of God!_ Hopper wanted to strangle the man, but the heavy silence which had suddenly fallen upon them would make the task complicated.

Jonathan’s eyes wandered around in the air, innocently, as if they were following a fly. Hands behind his back, he held a culprit stance.

Steve frowned and huffed, his mouth remaining slightly open. Hopper could actually see the gears in Steve’s brain turning over the information as the kid journeyed back to the signs which might have been overlooked.

Robin went crossed-eyed, looking at the tip of her nose, and blew a feather off of it.

“Yes!” Hopper said, and waved his hand at the small group. “Don’t you see; those are the faces of people in the know.” He was falling into sarcastic mode, which was never a good sign.

“Came as quite a shock to me too,” Murray deflected, as if someone had asked him anything.

“Mrs. Who?” Mike said bemusedly from the top stairs.

“Perfect timing to end your fight, kids,” Hopper prompted.

Joyce looked up at the army of kids with gaping mouths on the second floor. “Yes, we’re married, and no, we’re not having this conversation now.”

“Well,” Steve started. He clapped his hands, willing the group to follow suit. “Congratulations!”

“Go on, Jim,” Murray encouraged softly, “you may kiss the bride.”

Robin pouted with fondness and hooked her arms through Steve’s, resting her head on his shoulder. “This party gets better and better.”

“Yes! We want to see a kiss,” a couple of kids called from the upper floor and Hopper thought he recognized El’s voice.

“You seriously need to learn when to shut up,” Hopper said and then looked over at Joyce.

“You’ll thank me later,” Murray replied, his voice dismissive with fake modesty as he helped himself to another drink.

Joyce shrugged her shoulders and smiled, taking a step forward as the oohs and ahs became louder.

“All right, all right, knock it off!” Hopper stood up from the couch, gazing at Joyce, and closed the gap between them. He reached out to her. She took his hand and then wrapped her arms around his back, looking up at him as he embraced her.

“You gotta do what you gotta do,” she said in the tone of a joke, as if that was such a chore.

He offered her a supportive smile and nodded. “I did the nonchalant thing already, didn’t I?”

Taking her face in his hands, he closed his eyes and kissed her to the sound of cheers and awws and clapping. One of his hands slid through her hair while the other snaked to her back and he held her tighter as he bowed over her, forcing her to arch her back, thus kissing her dancer style like he’d seen it done in movies. She giggled in his mouth and he broke the kiss, people still clapping cheerfully around them—at least these kids had passed the age when watching people kiss disgusted them. He pulled her back upright and she wound her arms around his neck. Cupping the back of her head, he said in her ear, “Kissing you doesn’t get old, Joyce…even when the decision to do so has been kind of forced upon me.”

She pressed her lips to his cheek, and he pulled back to gaze at her, noting the emotion adorning her eyes.

“One point for one hell of a kiss!” Robin exclaimed, and strode to the board to put a mark both in Joyce’s and Hopper’s columns.

All kids came around to congratulate the couple, wishing them well, and Hopper felt more married than he’d ever been before. As if this awkward bunch of merry kids had somehow made it official. Jonathan was the one who’d touched Hopper the most—“I’m glad there’s finally a father in this household,” the kid had said which Hopper had thought was a great way to tell his mom he agreed with her decision—and Joyce had taken him in her arms with glistening eyes.

The older kids picked up their unfinished beers. They gathered them together and initiated a clinking of beer bottles the way the Musketeers would have raised their swords together while the kids’ united voice climaxed into a shout: “Oooooha partey!”

In another corner of the living room, the younger kids clinked what were most likely empty cups, their chatty chuckles mimicking those of the eldests.

As for Murray, he came forward and offered both Joyce and Hopper a glass. “No hard feelings.”

Hopper gave him a hard glare for good measure, but his mood was too uplifted to stay mad at the man. Joyce accepted the glass. And Hopper did, too, but he wouldn’t drink it. He had that nagging fear that too many too-strong beverages too early after his return might cause serious side effects, and in his particular condition he had no idea what those side effects could be, whether he would drift back to this more sinister world of violent thoughts, unlocking tormenting demons, or what else could happen. The thought alone stiffened the hair on the nape of his neck and he quickly pushed it away before it really had a chance to take root.

Eleven squeezed herself in between Hopper and Joyce from behind, causing them to break apart and to readjust their arms around the girl’s shoulders. Hopper looked down at her. He smiled and picked feathers out of the knotty and tangled mess of her hair —seeing nests atop human heads wasn’t unprecedented, although they weren’t in Hawkins anymore. She looked up at him, wondering what he was doing. He showed her a feather and she blew it away. At one point he gave up trying to clean her brown curls other than by ruffling them gently and he tugged her to his side. He considered asking her how she felt about all this, but there was really no point. He knew her answer. Joyce had taken care of El for the past six months, giving the girl the chance to experience what she’d never known until then: the innate kindness and unwavering affection of a mother—and now the gift of motherly love had become official and unlimited.

“All right, you guys!” Dustin called, clapping to get everybody’s attention. “Joyce, Hopper, obviously we’re all very happy for you, but if we wanna get this paintball war on a roll before nightfall—” He checked his watch and continued, “we gotta do it now. So put on your shoes and coats and hats and whatever else and see Steve for your extra garbage-bag cloak while Will and I do a draw to determine the teams.”

Robin snapped, “We’re not doing boys versus girls?” She sounded disappointed and was immediately joined by complaints from Max.

“Well,” Will said, “we outnumber you.” He counted quickly. “That would be five against eight.”

Max shrugged dismissively. “So?”

“So, that’s not fair,” Lucas said.

“At least you didn’t say that’d be ’too easy.’ There’s progress, Lucas.” Max smiled and gave him a quick kiss on the lips.

“How about we take Dingus?” Robin offered, turning to Steve.

“Sure. If you’re certain you won’t regret not being able to shoot at him.”

“Don’t worry about that.” Robin waved Max off. “We’ll have other occasions.”

“No doubt,” Max agreed.

“Okay, then that’s six girls-and-Steve against seven…”

Steve had been following Max and Robin’s interaction quietly, his head bouncing back and forth between the two girls like that of a spectator at a tennis game. He finally interrupted Max. “Um, guys, I’m flattered, really, but, um, does my opinion count for something?”

“Yeah,” Dustin popped in, “we want Steve with us!”

“Come on, Harrington,” Robin pleaded, “like you’re ever going to throw paint balls at girls.”

“I had no problem hitting you with a pillow.”

“Because it was a pillow,” Robin countered and tugged at his arm, giving him exaggerated puppy eyes. “Please, Harrington.”

Dustin took his other arm. “Don’t listen to her, Steve, she’s playing you. Be a man: join the force.”

“Ignore him; just a minute ago, you were just the garbage boy to him.”

“Hey!” Dustin snapped. “Someone had to provide the garbage bags! Girls are the dark side, Steve.”

“I sort of got a thing for the dark side—sorry, bud.”

“You’ve got a thing for…Farrah Fawcett,” Dustin snapped.

Robin laughed out loud. “What?”

Steve glared at his young friend. “Henderson, you’re a dead man.”

“Good that we’re on opposite teams.”

“Seriously though…Farrah Fawcett?” Robin asked, incredulous. “Isn’t she like…a bit old for you?”

“Hey! She’s a beautiful woman!”

“And she’s got beautiful h—”

Steve launched at Dustin. “Henderson, I swear to God!”

Dustin giggled. “What? I wasn’t going to say it.”

His arm around Dustin’s neck, Steve raked the knuckles of his fists into Dustin’s hair nonetheless.

All the other participants were welded to the team of their respective gender—whom Dustin had baptized the Boys Band vs. the Girls Plus One.

Within minutes, everyone was warmly dressed and poorly protected by the ridiculous non-shiny armor which came in the form of a garbage bag complete with holes for the head and arms—meant to protect the backs and fronts of their coats from paint assaults. Hopper had reservations whether that would salvage anything.

“Now, _that’s_ fashion!” Max had commented with a chuckle just before they’d all gone outside. Jonathan had taken photos, so time would tell if that became a thing.

_Hell_ , Hopper thought, _you’ve got one life._ Not to mention that Joyce had told him that Owens had made a very generous donation to cover Hopper’s “rescue” expenses and a little “extra” which Hopper wouldn’t have qualified as so little. Therefore if they needed new coats for the whole group, they could largely afford them. Besides, paint stains were probably removable with a simple wash.

Murray, the party, Jonathan, and Hopper—the Boys Band—set up base behind Joyce’s car. Hopper didn’t know whether that was meant to be strategic, but if they thought Joyce wouldn’t try and hit them just because she’d rather not soil her car, they could think again.

The Girls had gone a few paces away and hid in a tree house, which had probably been here when Joyce bought the house, and at about barely one-foot height it was, strategically speaking, far better than the other team’s current position.

They’d divided the amount of paint-filled balloons equally between the two teams—twenty each, so fewer than three per shooter, but still enough to cause a lot of damage. In any case, the battle wouldn’t last forever. It was around four, and relatively sunny, but the wind was invigorating at best, and still very, _very_ cold otherwise. Just walking knee-deep in the snow and then crouching behind the car wouldn’t improve their condition: their pants were not waterproof.

As if on cue, Murray groaned through gritted teeth, “I’m too old for this shit,” and he let his back slide against the car, sitting on his haunches.

Hopper snickered. “You’re young at heart, Murray.”

“Son of a bitch it’s cold!” Dustin muttered, his teeth already chattering. “Whose idea was this again?”

“Stop being such a baby, Dusty-Bun,” Lucas said.

“Or we’ll tell Suzie-Poo,” Mike continued.

Hopper turned to his team. “All right, who’s a fast runner? We need someone to divert them.”

Mike and Will volunteered. Lucas, whom Hopper had often seen with a sling, had a good aim—though they would all shoot with bare hands today, save for their gloves.

The two boys took their marks, ready as if on starting-blocks, one at the front, one at the back of the car while Jonathan, Murray, Lucas, Dustin, and Hopper got ready to shoot when the girls and Steve showed themselves to aim at the daring runners.

The first ball of paint to explode—azure blue—hit Dustin square in the back of his head while they were looking toward the tree house. The balloon had come from behind, and when Hopper spotted Steve on the porch, he realized they’d divided their group into two.

“Cover!” Lucas shouted, firing back in retaliation at Steve screaming, “Sorry, buddy, I meant to shoot Jonathan!”

Lucas’s balloon hit the wooden railing and the yellow paint exploded in front of Steve, firework style.

Murray and Hopper signaled Mike and Will to go, and they ran until they were out of their teammates’ line of sight. Joyce, Max, and Robin took aim and the two men threw their balls. Hopper ran away from the car, too, because Steve shot again, hit him in the back, and Hopper found himself ducking for cover behind another car.

He came face to face with Nancy who smiled coquettishly at him—dammit, the girls had thought their positions through way better than the boys!—and then mercilessly hit him in the stomach. He was unarmed, so he reciprocated with a snowball and she scurried away. He stayed low for a moment. He needed to return to Joyce’s car for new ammo.

El fled past him without seeing him. Hopper raked snow, packed it into a ball and threw it at her back—to hell if his position was revealed; he was enjoying the thrill too much.

But he missed her, and he quickly dropped to his knees and hands when she whirled around.

“Hurry, this way!” Steve shouted-whispered at her.

Soon, laughs and screams came from everywhere, even from the besieged Boys Band. Balloons flung from all over, as did snowballs—the majority of which successfully hit their targets. Lucas got Max, Max got Will, Will got his mom, who got Mike, who got Murray by accident… Things were quickly getting out of hand. Crazed kids and a bit of paint could, predictably, wreak havoc on a yard.

Perched in the tree and arms wide open, Robin screamed wholeheartedly: “Best party ever!” She lifted her head and closed her eyes, a soft smile playing on her lips as the breeze caressed her face, like the return of a phantom lover. It sounded like an overwhelmed cry of joy and resembled an ultimate sacrifice.

Because, indeed, she was instantly rewarded by a snowball and two paintballs into the chest and stomach, and then she burst into laughter.

Eventually Murray stood up. He held up his arms and declared himself out of the game, which didn’t stop the girls from splattering him with a final crimson touch right into his chest.

As the sun slowly began lacing the sky with exquisite cotton candy clouds, they all removed their garbage bags and discarded them into a colorful heap. Snow angels adorned the ground as they tried to clean themselves a little. Some, like Dustin or Hopper, had paint all the way in their hair. Getting out of their soaked coats and gloves and shoes before reentering the house, a shower order was decided according to how wet or frozen they each were, and they left their soiled clothes on the porch railing to be taken care of later.

In the span of a half hour or so, the front yard had been covered with rainbow splashes of paint—which reminded Jonathan that he’d completely forgotten to buy firecrackers, but nobody cared, really; these fireworks imprinted on the snow were the next best thing and, come to think of it, a lot more original and beautiful. Hopper couldn’t help but reflect that—after the Christmas lights, and after Will’s maze drawing which had run throughout her entire home—Joyce had a unique way of decorating her houses. Each time it had been for the kids’ sake. And today was no different, he realized. He couldn’t remember having seen El happier than now, and was glad that after all the twisted ways these kids’ lives had been changed, they still knew how to be kids again. Especially his own who hadn’t known any moments to act silly in her first few years of life.

That was when Hopper realized… He stared at his daughter. This kid who looked so different from how she’d been when he’d first met her. The feeling of helplessness that had plagued her all of these years, which he himself had experienced firsthand for a shorter time, rolled around in Hopper’s head for a moment. The uneasy feeling rubbed him the wrong way, rooting him to the spot where he stood as it began to take a firmer hold of him, claiming him like a missing piece searching for its place to fit, and Hopper felt his resistance starting to wear thin.

Those same vague, confusing, and unfocused terrors. His being unable to move, let alone resist, the hands that clutched at him. Screams that always came out as deafening silence. The adrenaline surge, the taste of blood on his bitten tongue. And then he would lie awake, heart hammering and cold arteries of fear pumping fresh dread and electricity into every part of his rigid body. The faces he could never quite see, voices he could never quite place, replaced soon after by that of Joyce disguised behind a mask of anguish, her small body curled against him, her soft voice soothing him back to a quieter heartbeat. As he now stared at his daughter slipping out of her jacket and discarding it along with the others on the railing before following her friends inside the house, he saw in her face the epitome of childhood glee, and, just like that, the formerly faceless man with dark green eyes of his nights had just gained a name. Martin Brenner.

Pain shot through his body, heady and brutal. Images raced throughout his mind, memories vengefully resurfacing as through a raging kaleidoscope.

Panting, his whole sense of equilibrium was upset, Hopper fell to the ground, his knees buckling and collapsing beneath him, his hands shaking. What had Hopper told the son of a bitch? His heart was like thunder against his temples, loud and all-consuming, and he found himself unable to catch his breath. God, was Eleven safe or had he disclosed her location like he’d done before? Had Hopper been strong enough to hold his tongue all those months? Everything spun around him, dizzying, and images of the half-masked Dr. Brenner and the exhilaration on Eleven’s face whirled around together in his mind’s eye. A sudden chill descended upon him, freezing him into stillness and agony as, still gasping for breath, he closed his eyes tightly in a poor attempt to slow his mind and pulse down.

A firm but gentle hand pressed against his chest while another wrapped around his waist and came to rest on his stomach, accompanied by a soothing “Shh” which penetrated the deafening noise of his internal storm. He hardly flinched against the touch. He didn’t need to turn around to know it was Joyce. Drawing a sharp intake of breath, his hearing grew more acute, the ringing in his ears fading, the loud pumping of his blood notwithstanding. “Hey, it’s just me. It’s okay. Just calm down, all right?” she crooned quietly, gently pulling him back to recline against her, cradling his limp, dead-weight body in her arms. He could feel the booming of his heart pulsing under the hand she pressed over his chest.

“I’m sorry,” he said, slowly regaining his senses and breath, his labored words tinted with embarrassment.

“It’s okay,” she said. “What happened? Were you hit on your stitches?”

He shook his head. “No. I’m just tired,” he lied, and planted his fists at his sides to push himself up.

Her arms tightened around his chest. “Just take a minute. There’s no rush, Hop.”

With a sigh, he leaned back into her in weary resignation. The cold seeping through his pants belied the warm skin of her cheek nuzzling his ear as he rested his head against hers. He cast a gaze around the yard. “Where is everybody?”

“Inside. You collapsed just as I was going in, too.”

_Oh, Jesus_ , he thought, wondering again what he had done, what he possibly had given away to the bastard.

“I’m okay now, Joyce,” he said softly after a short moment. The last thing he wanted was having the kids worrying over him for the rest of the evening and ruin the night.

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” he replied, and felt her hands moving to his elbows so that he could lean on her to bring himself to his feet.

When they were both standing, he arched his back with a grimace and she took his hands, gauging him silently. He smiled reassuringly, swallowing down his residual terror, and his arms came around her, catching her around the waist. She leaned her forehead against his chest, then tilted her face to the side, and his chin rested against the top of her head as he wrapped her close. Slowly, he closed his eyes, heaving a sigh of relief and anguish.

“You don’t want to tell me what happened?” she said against his chest.

“I told you…I’m bone-tired.”

She looked up at him, seeking his eyes, and he loosened his arms around her to meet her gaze. “That much at least is true,” she said, making no effort not to insinuate she didn’t believe him one bit.

Clearly he wasn’t a good liar, but he wasn’t ready to tell her about his latest recollection. Not now. His ordeal was already taking too much of a toll on them.

“You sure you’re okay?” she asked again when he had no other explanation to provide, and he nodded, doing his best to tamp down the shame he felt rising in his chest. Resigned, she patted his chest lightly, a weak smile crossing her face but hurt plain in her eyes. It made him feel miserable. “Let’s go inside then.”

While waiting for a bathroom to be free, some watched _Gremlins_ in Will’s room; others set to work on installing the Christmas lights. As for Hopper, he waited on the couch, beer in hand, trying to avert Joyce’s worried glances, willing to dull his mind. With so many people in the house, there were only so many places where he could isolate himself, and he was looking forward for his turn to go through the mindless process of taking a shower.

Dustin was in line just before him, and, gratefully, the kid showered fast. Once in the bathroom, Hopper avoided the mirror. His idea of how he looked was clear enough that he needed no reminder—eyes ringed with dark shadows, face pale and drawn and hollowed; not a pretty picture. Looking for some sort of a jolt to pull him back from this narcotic netherworld waiting room, he let icy water sluice over his body, and yet he felt nothing despite his slapping his face several times—if nothing else, that would bring some colors back into his cheeks. His senses were overloaded, nearing the breaking point, almost as if someone had reached in and rearranged his insides, this ominous sense of being out of control angering him just a notch higher.

But he wouldn’t return _there_. Not now. They were safe, he tried to convince himself. The kids and Joyce were safe. From what he could remember, he’d only given Brenner Joyce’s former last name, and given the surprise on everyone’s faces earlier, no one had known she’d changed it; she’d kept her marriage a secret—whatever her reasons. Joyce Byers didn’t exist anymore. She was dead to the world—just like he had been. Perhaps, it would be enough to keep him at arm’s length long enough for Hopper to recover everything, for them to come up with a plan. A _definitive_ plan. Hopper would lure Brenner back to Hawkins or whatever, he didn’t know exactly what strings to pull, but he’d keep Joyce and the kids out of it. For now, they were safe. Hopper repeated the words again inwardly, almost like a litany. Yes, he reasoned, he hadn’t known where El and the Byers’ had moved to, and he’d just as soon tear out his own heart and eat it as give that information away. He wouldn’t let the son of a bitch put a dent in an otherwise perfect day. He’d never been invited, and he sure as hell wasn’t welcome.

Sustenance and maybe another beer or two was what he needed to calm his nerves. Sex definitely also had that wonderful effect of lifting him out of the dark alleyways of his brain, but he wasn’t there yet—and neither was Joyce. God, he was so tired.

“Hop?” a feminine voice called gently from the other side of the bathroom door.

Standing under the cold stream of water, his fingers massaging his scalp as he soaked up a sense of now, he paused and strained to hear. “Joyce?” he called back, and cleared his throat.

“Yeah. You okay?”

He most decidedly was _not_ okay, but he would be. Soon. “Yeah,” he said, doing his best to keep his voice light, and shifted his head from side to side, wincing as his neck popped softly. “I’ll be out in a minute.” Guessing she was still behind the door (otherwise she would have voiced her acknowledgment), he waited a beat, wondering whether he could crack a joke. “Unless you want to come in and scratch my back…?” he asked, rolling his eyes at himself.

A soft chuckle, and then, “Was just making sure.”

Moments later, Hopper tapped lightly on El’s bedroom door, opening it just a crack when several voices invited him in, and then he stuck his head through the door. “Nancy, you’re up,” he informed her, and noticed that El had changed into an elegant blue dress.

Pausing from applying some sort of makeup on his daughter’s face, Nancy looked up and thanked him, handing the pencil to Robin.

After taking a deep breath and steeling himself, Hopper knocked on Joyce’s door and let himself in. Only wearing her underwear and a loose t-shirt, Joyce was bent over to pick something up, leaving her buttocks on full display to greet him. Because of the number of inhabitants in the house, they’d set the rule that no one was to exit the bathroom half naked. Therefore, Hopper had put on some old jeans and a t-shirt before returning to the bedroom, but Joyce had already showered, so maybe she was considering something different to wear for the evening. For all he cared, she was fine like this.

The sight was enough to make a man lose his head, in the good way this time, and restored the smile to his face. It was powerful, what she could do to him.

He cocked his head appreciatively to the side. “Well, hello to you too, Joyce’s ass,” he singsang, closing the door behind him.

She slightly jumped in surprise and turned around. “Hop,” she said then paused, giving him a long, serious look he couldn’t really read, “we have a problem.”

“Uh-oh…” he said, wincing, the humor in his voice belying his concern. “What is it?” he asked, not quite sure if the annoyance that was evident on her face was teasing or genuine.

“I didn’t think it was possible for someone to be even messier than I am, but apparently you are.”

Hopper could have laughed in relief. “Blame it on the kids—or on Murray for taking the downstairs room. I’m usually tidier than this.”

She smiled softly, and then asked, “You okay?”

He dismissed her question with an “I’m fine,” and started over to his boxes to fetch something to wear, but he stopped short when she put her hands on her hips and stared at him.

“What?”

“Take off your shirt,” she said with renewed authority as if she were picking up in the middle of a whole different conversation.

He sucked in a startled breath and paused for dramatic effect. “Dear Diary,” he said with a mocking dreamlike voice, “today my heart leaped when Joyce Byers ordered me to take off my shirt.”

“Bandage check.”

“Ugh. Again?” he cried.

“Yes, again.”

“And just like that, diary, she dangled the dream and then took it away…”

“Let me redo your bandage,” she said, twinkling her eyes at him. If she was still worried about his earlier incident in the snow, she kept it to herself, and that was just as well.

“But—”

“No _buts_ , Hopper," she protested, and he let his mock indignation slip with a short laugh.

“The bandage is fine, Joyce,” he said lightly. He took her hands—hardly believing she had already gotten hold of a gauze—and looked her in the eyes. “At ease, soldier.”

“Dammit, Hop,” she said between anger and laughter—the kind of voice where you’re getting really annoyed at someone and don’t have the patience to go through _this_ again but you’re too fond of said someone to suppress your smile—“if you don’t take care of that wound, it’s soon gonna start swelling up like an overripe pumpkin.”

“Ew…” he said, playing along, though the image _was_ repulsive. “I’m not having this argument with you, Joyce,” he added in a voice that led her to believe he was in compliance, and then he took the gauze out of her hand and skedaddled over to the opposite side of the bed.

“Hopper!” she hissed in a quiet tone of disbelief.

“Look, I can tell that you’re fond of me and that’s why my scar worries you, but cherishing fond hopes of being my doctor really isn’t doing any good to my self-esteem. And _really_ , I’m fine.”

“Yes, I’m fond of you because of lots of things, and despite a few other things,” she said and leaped on the bed to cross to him. “And yes, you’re right; I’m worried, so what else can I do?”

Hopper darted the other way, grinning, with Joyce still standing on her own bed, as if ready to jump on his back. “I’m not so good with the advice. Can I interest you in a sarcastic comment?”

At this point he didn’t think this was about checking his bandage anymore, but he liked her “good crazy” mood too much to give in. It was too easy to fall back into the teasing habits of their younger years when she was happy.

In the past few years, Hopper had witnessed more times than he would have liked Joyce’s weary eyes and blunt language, which, to his own knowledge, should have belonged to a woman who had experienced sexist attitudes her whole life and was sick of humoring them. Maybe Lonnie did that to her; Hopper didn’t know, but that hadn’t been the Joyce he’d remembered. Hopper had seen firsthand how she could be pushed to her limit… But he knew there was another limit on the exact opposite side of her, where her eyes twinkled with mischief instead, and if he could push her toward that place, he would—or die trying. Well, not die, exactly. If she could hurt from the smile plastered on her face, he wouldn’t mind.

“Hopper…” she whined-laughed, hanging her head, shaking it in despair.

Like a kid, he crouched, faking left, then passing right to Joyce. He jumped on and off the bed behind her, fast, and landed on the other side of the bed again.

“One of us is going to harm themselves,” he said, smirking. “And for some odd reason, I’m afraid it’s going to be me.”

Their eyes dueled for a moment, arguing and challenging. Copper lit up her eyes like fire, and he wondered whether the blue hue of his own glinted like ice in return.

“So just get your prissy ass up here, give me the goddamn gauze and let me check your bandage,” she said, amusement rippling through her.

“This ass needs rest,” Hopper stated firmly. “As does the rest of him.”

She tried to catch his hand, but he moved it to his back since she now stood taller than him. She jumped off the bed, dashing for his hand. At his turn, he jumped on the bed, but failed and tripped and fell head first on the mattress and felt the sting at his side. The next second, her light frame sat on his back. He crawled forward, trying to escape her, but she leaned in to reach out even though he was pushing his hands as far away from her as possible. He’d almost forgotten Joyce’s inability to give up. Ignoring the futility of his efforts, he squirmed around to face her, and she lifted herself up just about enough so he wouldn’t hurt himself even as she still straddled his waist. They were both laughing.

“Wow, did you feel that?” she asked, schooling her expression to appear somewhat serious despite her happy beam.

“Feel what?”

“I just had a blast from the past…”

“Yeah, me too…” he agreed—and boy, he’d miss _this_ Joyce.

“Are you having dirty thoughts now, Hopper?”

“What?” he choked and chuckled. “No!”

“Hop,” she said archly.

“I’m not, Joyce! And I’m slightly offended by the insinuation.”

“Sorry,” she said, looking like her face might split from grinning. “Force of habit,” she added, then she’d shaken her head quickly and was already attempting to grab the gauze again.

“Joyce—” Hopper warned. “The bandage is just fine. The scar is fine. Just—” he chuckled, “just leave it the fuck alone.”

In lieu of answering, she pushed his shirt up to his chest, and he stopped her again—however much he loved her flirtatious game, he wanted to have the upper hand.

“Jesus, woman, you are on fire!” he exclaimed through chuckles, pulling his shirt down, and she used the opportunity to snatch the gauze out of his hand.

“Victory!”

“Nooo,” he wailed, grabbing her hips.

A rapid succession of thumps on the door, immediately followed by El’s voice, made them stop with a start.

“Hop—I mean, _Dad!_ Either you behave or you misbehave in silence or the three-inch rule applies to you too!”

This must have been one of the most authoritative tones Hop had ever heard from his daughter.

“Yeah!” Will shouted in the same tone. “That goes for you too, Mom!”

El and Will and a third kid Hopper guessed had to be Mike dissolved into laughter.

Barely daring to move and certainly not daring to be heard again, Hop and Joyce looked at each other, mortified, lips pursed and breaths on hold, as they listened to the giggling wave wandering away.

Further on, the kids went pounding at another door, and then, “Jonathan, Nancy, three inches!” This time it was Mike, laughter rippling out into the narrow hallway.

“She’s in the shower!” Jonathan shouted back.

El’s bedroom slammed shut with aggravating finality. Joyce hid her red face in her hands and dropped onto Hopper’s chest, cackling with laughter. Slipping one arm around her shoulders, Hopper joined her and broke out in unbridled laughter; this was his most humiliating moment as a father. Their bodies shuddered with the force of the paroxysms of giggles.

“She’s-she’s policing everyone,” Joyce said, voice choking. In their current state, one could have believed that they wouldn’t abide by any rules, but he gathered that, as parents, a few still remained. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

Hopper removed his arm from around her neck when Joyce pushed herself up and sat upright on him.

“Oh God.” She took a deep, calming breath. Coolly, she appraised him with one quick scan of her piercing nut-colored eyes. “Did you hurt yourself?” she asked.

“No,” he said reflexively. “Just a little.” He pulled his shirt back up to his chest and propped his head up to check.

“Just get rid of the damn shirt,” she said, smiling.

He raised himself to a sitting position and she slid to his groin, pulling his shirt off over his head for him. He pressed his hand to his side. The fresh bandage—yes, he’d changed it like a big boy, what did she think?—was still pristine white and dry. He looked at her—he could have folded his arms above his chest, but he figured his gaze was enough to convey, “See, it’s fine!”

Playfully pushing her leg off of him so she wasn’t sitting on him anymore, he rolled her to her side, her back to him, and lay so as to spoon her from behind, forearms crossing around her abdomen so that she was tightly nestled against his body. Their laughter faded gently as they fell silent.

He felt a wave of protectiveness, not because she was so small in his arms—though that probably had a role in it, too—but because she could be such a tempestuous and bold woman, with so few friends as if she’d willingly cut herself off from the rest of society, erecting a wall around her family almost to the point of becoming a hermit. A recluse. That made him feel somewhat special, that he was able to read her and understand her without the easy judgment that Hawkins’ ignorant, narrow-minded residents had been so keen to quickly nail her with, that he was able to appease her like she did him, and he was sure he had never respected anyone so dearly.

“You smell like orange blossoms,” he mused in a quiet whisper, kissing the nape of her neck. It was a nice smell; clean and fresh. Like a spring morning.

“That’s my soap,” she replied conversationally.

Stunned, he remembered one of the many times he’d fantasized about her when he was in Russia. He thought that she had been a fantasy, but he now wondered how he could have known what scent of soap she used.

Pushing the memory away for the moment, Hopper fondly nuzzled his nose in the crook of her neck, lightly caressing her stomach with the pad of his thumb, his eyes threatening to slide shut from the feel of it all. “Let’s just fall asleep and not wake up until next year. Do you think anyone would notice our absence?” he whined, but his voice was soft, low, and tender.

“Did you get any rest at all last night?”

“Some,” he replied in a non-committal voice, reveling in the warmth and scent of her body.

“How many still have to shower?” she asked, twining her fingers through his.

He had no clue. But before he could form an answer, Hop heard a feminine voice going “one two three” in a mic. It was coming from below them on the ground level of the house.

His head slightly rose from his pillow and he strained to hear. “Is that…?” he wondered out loud.

“Sounds like someone’s up for a private concert.”

A male voice came up next, testing the sound, and Hopper recognized Steve, encouraged by an audience of kids. Steve, and so presumably Robin, did a bit of warm-up, with echo-y electric guitars. Joyce swung her legs and leaped off the bed with an “Oh my God” exclamation.

Hopper sighed. “Well, that was short-lived…”

“Rain check?” she asked, and he nodded. “Well come on then,” she said, this time excited. “Get dressed, we gotta see this,” Joyce cheered.

“Get dressed…” he grunted. “You’re the one who _un_ dressed me.”

Slowly moving out of his empty embrace, Hopper watched as Joyce slid into a pair of slim jeans. Her back to him in a halfhearted attempt at modesty, she squirmed and shrugged into a mid-thigh, elbow-long flowery tunic. She turned around, pushing her hair back, “How do I look?”

“Are you giving me permission to check you out?” Hopper grinned up at her, his head propped on his hand, sizing her up.

One of her eyebrows arched upward in an exclamation of admonition, and she flashed him a smile.

“I already did,” he admitted, then added sincerely, “You’re beautiful, Joyce.”

She pecked his lips quickly and dashed out of the room while Robin started to sing: _“Who knows what tomorrow brings  
In a world few hearts survive.”_

_“All I know is the way I feel,”_ Steve sang in turn. _“When it’s real, I keep it alive._  
The road is long,  
There are mountains in our way,  
But we climb a step every day.”

Robin joined in for the chorus as Hop searched for a shirt, _“Love lifts us up where we belong,_  
Where the eagles cry, on a mountain high.  
Love lifts us up where we belong,  
Far from the world below, up where the clear winds blow.”

The night was still young—and only beginning for some apparently—Hopper thought, just short of whimpering.

Hopper changed into a new pair of jeans which didn’t fit any more than the previous ones had and still bordered on baggies. The plain white shirt he put on next was also too large, and he kept the brown tie loose at the collar because it made no sense to tie it when everything else was slack. He gave up wearing one of his few—two—suits; either they were way too big or he was way too slim, in any case he came up looking nothing short of a clown in them. If he could just find his old pair of suspenders, that would nail it.

When Hopper came down the stairs, Steve and Robin, each holding a guitar plugged into a small speaker settled in a corner of the room, were finishing up their song. It wasn’t really the kind of music Hopper liked to listen to, but he had to admit they were pretty good at it, and he would never have guessed the Harrington kid knew how to sing, let alone play the guitar. Robin seemed to do most of the melody, but still, Hopper would have imagined him playing the triangle instead.

A few kids were dancing, while Murray, Joyce, Jonathan and Nancy were enjoying the show. Everyone clapped eagerly when the song ended.

“Thanks!” Robin said, her mouth away from the mic now—she and Steve had only one and switched back and forth or used it together when they sang. “We’ve only worked on two songs, so here’s the second one,” she informed them, and began again to move her fingers on the guitar hung around her shoulder after a glance and a quick nod at Steve.

_“Baby, I get so scared inside,”_ Robin started singing after the short intro, _“And I don’t really understand…_  
Is it love that’s on my mind,  
Or is it fantasy?”

_“Heaven is in the palm of my hand,”_ Steve replied with a suggestive smirk. _“And it’s waiting here for you.”_

Robin rolled her eyes with a rueful smile. _“What am I supposed to do  
With a childhood tragedy?”_

_“If I close my eyes forever,”_ Steve sang. _“Will it all remain unchanged?”_

_“If I close my eyes forever,”_ Robin echoed, _“Will it all remain the same?”_

_“Sometimes it’s hard to hold on,”_ Steve prompted.

_“So hard to hold on to my dreams,”_ Robin agreed.

_“It isn’t always what it seems,”_ Steve sang-replied, _“When you’re face to face with me.”_

_“You’re like a dagger,”_ Robin continued with a feigned sniff.

_“You stick me in the heart,”_ Steve assented.

_“And taste the blood from my blade,”_ Robin chanted. _“And when we sleep,”_

_“Would you shelter me in  
Your warm and darkened grave?”_ Steve prompted.

_“If I close my eyes forever,  
Will it all remain unchanged?”_ Robin sang.

_“If I close my eyes forever,”_ Steve echoed, _“Will it all remain the same?”_ She nodded, pouting, and he continued, _“Will you ever take me?”_

Robin made a face, gagging with disgust. _“No, I just can’t take the pain,”_ she replied in tune.

Steve playfully grimaced a smile. _“Would you ever trust me?”_

_“No, I’ll never feel the same.”_

At that, Steve dramatically grabbed his chest in theatrical pain and Robin started a guitar solo.

_“I know I’ve been so hard on you,”_ Robin sang again. _“I know I’ve told you lies.”_

Steve grabbed the mic pole, pulling it toward him. _“If I could have just one more wish,  
I’d wipe the cobwebs from my eyes.”_

Robin joined in and they sang a heartfelt final chorus. _“If I close my eyes forever,_  
Will it all remain unchanged?  
If I close my eyes forever,  
Will it all remain the same?”

_“Close your eyes,”_ Steve sang.

_“Close your eyes,”_ Robin echoed.

_“You gotta close your eyes for me.”_

A chorus of howling applause and rapturous encores ensued, and Robin and Steve bowed toward their audience, Steve whispering something in Robin’s ear and Robin smacking his chest in response. Then Robin apologized again on behalf of Steve, him being a slow learner, and they walked to the table to grab some beers while Jonathan fed a cassette into the stereo. “Should I stay or should I go” started playing, and Hopper decided that Jonathan’s tunes had Hopper’s future stamp of approval.

Max, Lucas, and Dustin pushed the couch and coffee table against a wall, and they all began to dance with more or less eagerness. Dustin and Lucas were slam dancing; Will and Mike air-drumming hard, heads rolling like rock stars; Murray bobbed his head up and down, drinking and watching everyone, while Hopper moved the basic steps of the rhythm under the encouraging—or mocking, he wasn’t exactly sure which—gazes of El and Max. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Joyce had joined Robin and Steve. She had an arm around Robin’s shoulder whom was leaning her head back against her, all three drinking beers, engrossed in whatever talk they were having with Cheshire Cat smiles.

Hours and a few beers later, the music was still playing at full blast, the hustle and bustle of the party, when Hopper found Robin and Steve lying on their backs under the illuminated Christmas tree.

Kneeling down, Hopper could see that the kids were drunk—and still held bottles in their hands. He himself had had several beers and felt a soft buzz, but he was still a long ways away from drunk.

“This fucking tree smells so fucking good!” Robin snorted through laughter, her words slurring in the after-effects of a lunch and dinner possibly consisting solely of beer and vodka.

“You okay down there?” Hopper asked.

“Yeah!” Steve exclaimed a bit too loud. “We found some Christmas presents and now we’re just enjoying the view.”

“Don’t forget the smell,” Robin chimed in, and they both laughed out loud.

Hopper offered Robin a hand. “Come on, kid, get out of here, someone’s going to stamp on you.”

Instead of taking his hand, Robin collapsed into giggles and the soles of her shoes started kicking the floor hard as if what Hopper had just said was just too much, her hands moving to hide her face.

Steve explained, “I’m sure she thought you said ’Tampon’…” and Robin doubled over in laughter.

Within a second, Steve burst into howling laughter alongside his friend. Hopper felt a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, and couldn’t contain it.

Eventually coming up short on breath, Robin fanned her face with both hands, poorly attempting to calm herself down while Steve wiped his eyes with his hands. “Oh God, I’m gonna pee my pants…” Robin thought she ought to say out loud, and it almost tripped Steve up again.

But then she grabbed his arm, somewhat startled by a sudden lightning bolt of lucidity. “Ooh!” Robin exclaimed. “You know what we should do?”

Steve shook his head solemnly.

“A dance competition!”

Steve winced. “Er…sounds like _Saturday Night Fever_ … You know, without the box office income…” he added, smiling widely at his own humor.

They exchanged the briefest of glances, and then rolled onto their sides and began laughing their asses off again, facing one another, their whole bodies shaking with their joyous alcohol-induced earthquake, hands pressed to their most likely cramped stomachs—or worse, full bladders.

Hopper took the bottles from the kids and put them on the nearby table as Steve was going to finish his up—while lying down. “The bar is closed.” They barely acknowledged him.

“Hey,” Robin said, nudging her elbow at Steve. “A termite walks into a bar and says, Where is the bar tender?”

Shrieks of laughter again.

“You know what really bugs me?” Steve asked.

“Um, insect puns?” Robin offered.

“Yes!” Steve cried, disbelieving she got it, and laughed. “See, you and me, we’re so good together!”

“Come on, kids,” Hopper said, and pulled them one after the other by their ankles. “I think what you should really do is go outside for a minute or two and take in some fresh air.”

They both sat down on the floor, swaying like wheat in the wind. Still on his haunches in front of them, Hopper put his hand on Steve’s shoulder to steady him.

“Nah!” Steve said as Robin awkwardly waved Hopper off. “We’re fine…”

“Famous last words,” Hopper mused with a chuckle. He pressed his smile into a doubtful line at this, and bobbed a knowing nod.

“How many fingers?” Robin asked, wiggling three fingers too close to Steve’s eyes.

“Um…Eighteen?”

“Ha ha ha!” Robin wailed in laughter, her forehead dropping onto Steve’s shoulder.

Steve furrowed his brow, grabbed the hand Robin had just waved at him and looked again, blinking several times. “I’m pretty sure it’s eighteen. On the other hand, you have different fingers…”

Robin arched a brow and laughed. “I think your sense of humor has reached a plateau, Harrington.”

“A plateau is the highest form of flattery, my dear,” Steve retorted.

“I was going to give you a nasty look, but you already have one.”

Biting back his smile, Hopper shook his head at the kids’ little blather—it was like one was trying to outlaugh the other. Robin’s trilling peal of laughter made Hopper smirk. There was so much he remembered from his own complicity with young Joyce just looking at these two. Hopper straightened up to a standing position, helping the kids to their feet before they died laughing. “All right, can you stand?” he asked, looking sharply at them.

Steve was hunched forward with his hands on his knees, his head sunk low between his shoulders. Hopper grabbed him by the arm, just in case.

“Woooh…” Robin howled, “I haven’t felt like this since—” She looked up and met Hopper’s gaze, swallowing a burp, a giggle, and the rest of her thought. “Oh God,” she mused. She looked down at Steve, whom she leaned upon with her elbow as if he were a mere bar counter. “You all right down there?”

“Yup,” Steve said and unfolded himself upright, snapping his face up and exaggeratingly blinking his bearings into focus. His head heavily fell backward as if he had no more muscle to hold it back, and he looked heavenward, wide-eyed. “Wow…”

Hopper looked up, too, and nodded with a low murmur of assent. He had to admit that whoever had taken care of Joyce’s great amount of tangled Christmas lights had done an amazing job at drawing strands after strands of multi-colored blinking lights along the ceiling.

A smile bloomed across Robin’s face as she followed Steve’s gaze. Then she lowered it back on Steve and her palm moved to cover his forehead in a posture of forbearance and Steve reached to snip her nose, causing her to move her hand on his cheek and turning his face sideways like a slow-motioned slap.

He let out a small laugh, dramatically muttering “awesome” under his breath. “I think I’ll take on Hop’s suggestion for some fresh air,” he said, nodding to motivate himself.

“Good idea,” Hopper said, and he scanned the room for Dustin, not trusting that these two could handle a little self-appointed expedition in subzero weather on their own.

“But wait,” Robin whined, and hooked her arms through Hopper’s and Steve’s. “Where’s Joyce again? I want to thank her again for inviting us.”

Hopper looked around again, this time for Joyce. She was finishing up a dance with Jonathan. He caught her gaze and tossed his chin in their direction, motioning her to join them.

“Everything all right?” Joyce asked when she was by their side.

“We’ve got two very inebriated kids here,” Hopper replied, fixing his attentive gaze on them again.

“All in good faith,” Robin said sanctimoniously.

“Yup,” Steve confirmed, “we’ll be back on track faster than she can fall on her ass.” He pointed his thumb at Robin.

Robin grunted in affirmation, sagging against Steve. “Joyce,” she started in earnest—as much as she could in her drinking state anyway—and put her hand on Joyce’s shoulder. “Mr. Joyce,” she added, and turned her face toward Hop, her other hand gently slapping his shoulder. Hopper and Joyce steadied her, their hands on her back. “I have _no way_ of explaining how my _parents_ suck…

” She air quoted the word “parents.”

“So do mine,” Steve interjected, and his forehead came to rest on Robin’s shoulder as if he’d just fallen fast asleep, standing.

“But _you_ …” Robin continued. “You two on the other hand, you’re the best parents. _E-ver_.”

“Okay,” Hopper said, and caught sight of Dustin. “Hey, Dustin! Come here a minute.”

“I declare this New Year’s Eve an annual thing,” Robin exclaimed while Dustin approached, a question on his face.

Steve let out a little bark of laughter. “Um, it is.”

“But _here_ , dingus. A thing _here_. Every year. Try and pay attention.”

“I’m too broke to pay attention,” Steve replied, highly amused with himself.

That earned him another chuckle of laughter from Robin. She fell awkwardly into Joyce and Hopper’s embrace. “I love you guys. I love you all!” Robin exclaimed, then turned to Steve with a pouty smile, stabbing a finger into his chest. “And I love _you_ , too.”

“And I love _you_ , too,” Steve said and kissed her cheek before turning to Dustin. “And you _too_ , bufflehead.”

“Whoa, how many drinks did you two have?” Dustin asked, serious.

Steve and Robin looked at one another as if they’d understood something at the exact same time, something that everyone else had missed, a smile creeping on both faces as if they were each other’s reflection, then they turned to Dustin.

“I could tell…” Steve began, “how _many_ —”

“But then again,” Robin continued on his thought, “if we explain the word ‘many’ to you—”

“—it means a lot.”

Another squeal of laughter emanated from the two. Robin doubled over. “Oh man, that hurt…” she cried-whined-laughed, hugging her stomach.

Hopper helped her up and draped her arm around Dustin, telling him to take them outside and to never take his eyes off of them. Steve looked at Hopper, a question hanging in his glistening eyes. Hopper squeezed the kid’s shoulder affectionately.

“Don’t stay out too long. I wouldn't want you to freeze to death.”

“Uh-huh.”

“She’s a keeper,” Hopper told Steve.

“Uh-huh, I know… Tough luck,” Steve replied, pensive, and leaving it at that. Then he quickly staggered away to rejoin Robin.

Love was a two-way street, Hopper reflected, and maybe Robin’s side had a roadblock, or maybe their friendship meant more to them than an intimate relationship, he didn’t know, but he certainly wouldn’t play Murray’s favorite, setting-couples-up game. Whatever there was between these two, Steve looked pretty hung up on that girl however, Hopper thought as he watched them staggering toward the entrance door, clutching each other, half-supporting, half-supported, like the pair of drunken dancers they were. Where their relationship would land was anybody’s guess. But if they were anything like himself and Joyce, he believed they could weather anything that life might throw at them.

As he reached to grab his bottle on the table, Eleven came in his line of sight from behind his back and began stacking chips and cheese on a plate. Slowly turning around, he looked at her a moment, downing the rest of his drink in a swig, amused.

“Hey you,” Hopper said pleasantly, putting the bottle down. “Don’t forget to put some veggies on that plate, too.” Following his own words, he put a couple of carrots on his plate.

She wrinkled her nose.

“Where have you been? I’ve been looking for you all evening, kid,” he asked gently. He had a pretty clear idea where the kid had been, and was uncertain he wanted to hear the answer out loud.

She responded with a hum, distracted. “I was, um— We left the door open.” She smiled.

Hopper nodded knowingly. He took the plate from her hand, and put it down on the table. “That’s fine. Glad Mike finally let you have a dance with your old dad,” he said, and then reached for her hand and led her to the dance floor.

She rolled her eyes. “There’s still plenty of songs to come.”

Dancing wasn’t his strong suit, but Hopper scooped his daughter into his arms, grateful that it was once again the kind of song that demanded a certain closeness. “Nuh-uh,” he replied, “not for me; at one minute past midnight, I’m retreating to bed. I’m as old and tired as dads come. Which means that whatever you’re doing upstairs will have to be quiet, door open or otherwise.”

“Likewise,” she replied with a chuckle.

“Deal,” he replied, and they low-fived it.

Her face against his chest and his chin hooked on the top of her head to secure her against him, he only looked down at her every so often. They moved around the living area without another word until the song ended—much too soon. After that, he wasn’t even finished thanking her that she’d already cleaned her plate and was dashing up the stairs just as Joyce was coming back from smoking a cigarette in the kitchen—probably the first one he’d seen her smoke today.

His _wife_ leaned against the wall, hands behind her back, watching the kids dance. Her hair fell around her face in a nimbus of mahogany curls which reflected the overhead multicolored lights, crowning her features with a fiery halo. Hop slowly crossed to her, and she caught his gaze and held it.

“A penny for your thoughts,” he said in a low voice, planting a palm on the wall above her shoulder, his tall and lean frame towering over her.

She tilted her chin up, her gaze dancing between his left and right eyes. There was a stricken expression on her face, something troubled and worried. Her slightly quivering lips made Hopper’s eyebrows knit together. After an internal struggle, she seemed to have made up her mind about whatever she was just thinking; a muscle near her jaw twitched, her face relaxed a little, and she shook her head softly.

“You okay?” he asked in a whisper, soft concern and confusion residing inside the hollows of his words.

“Never mind; I’m being silly,” she said with the hint of a smile as her gaze swayed past him.

Still trying to capture her gaze again, Hopper bent his knees and ducked his head, letting his free hand graze her waist. Just like Joyce was, he wasn’t so easily put off. “Hey, what is it?” He couldn’t keep the edge of concern out of his voice.

It took her a few moments of contemplation before she answered. She brought one of her hands from behind her back and placed it on his chest. “I was just wondering…” She stopped mid-sentence, letting this hang for a moment, perhaps assuming Hopper would guess or supply some kind of answer to the unasked question. Which he definitely didn’t.

“You were just wondering… _what_?” he whispered close to her ear, and pulled back to gaze at her again, unable to keep a soft, endearing smile from his face.

“I was just wondering if I’ll ever be enough.”

“Ever be enough for what?” He frowned, not understanding.

“If I’ll ever be enough for you.”

His eyebrows shot up in astonishment, eyes popping wide open, but then his face grew serious. “If you’ll ever be enough for me?” he repeated after her if only to make sure he’d gotten every word right. Or to allow her to hear how ridiculous it sounded. He gazed deep into her eyes for a moment to see how true her words were. “Crazy Joyce is back?” he joked.

She let out a soft chuckle and had the grace to cover her face with her hands. He watched her like she was otherworldly, stealing a quiet moment to take in the strong woman’s face, willing his eyes, his heart, to sear past her walls.

Relative silence descended on the two, everything slowly fading away except for him and Joyce. He gently pulled her hands away from her face, keeping one in his own, and pressed it to his heart as he locked his eyes with hers again. “How can you think something like that, Joyce? Forgive me in advance for the clichéd and supercheap words I’m about to use—remember that we’ve already demonstrated that romance is dead—but you’re all that I’ve ever wanted for a long, _long_ time.” Joyce’s eyes sparked at him, and a slow grin curved her mouth. He noticed with a self-satisfied smile the blush he had brought to her cheeks, and continued, “I swear. Why do you think I was such an asshole back in Hawkins? Huh? I’ll tell you why: because I was jealous and scared—scared that you’d choose _anybody_ but the guy who stood right in front of you day after day after day after day but was too ridiculously shy and helplessly crippled by self-loathing to say anything meaningful.” And it was true; after so long and so many women who'd come and gone, his insecurity had somehow managed to impress within himself the notion that he wasn’t good enough to be in a relationship.

A soft smile touched her mouth. “Like Scott Clarke?”

Hopper rolled his eyes at his own stupidity. “Yes! That’s how insane I was. And it’s all on me; my idea of communication was— _is_ — Let’s just say it’s easier to drop a witty one liner and then punch the person in the face—a physical or literal punch, depending on the person’s sex.”

“No, I’m sorry I stood you up.”

“Joyce, I don’t care anymore.” _Although, sure, back then it hurt like hell_. “My point is, you _are_ enough. Hell, you were already enough as my friend—but as my _wife_? Tsk.” How could a grown man have his heart sucked out of his chest and yet still live? He was beginning to feel the urge to hold her, but instead he inched just a little closer and gently knocked their joined hands against his heart, using his elbow rather than his hand to brace against the wall in order to create a more private space for them both. “You must not ask if you’ll ever be enough, but if you ever won’t be _too much_. You have any idea—any idea at all—how being with you makes me feel?”

“I’m starting to get it.”

“But hey, no pressure, my dear. And what about me? What if _I_ can’t offer you everything you need?” he asked in earnest.

“Yeah because I’m so needy…” she said in a small, sarcastic voice.

“That’s not what I said.”

She smiled again. “I know what you said.”

This time he couldn’t fight his need to have her in his arms anymore. He rolled to his side and slid between her back and the wall, twining their hands over her stomach, both of them facing the dance floor. He rested his chin on her shoulder, so she could hear what he had to say loud and clear over the loud music. Maybe he _was_ on the buzzier side of buzzed, but he was happy with the way the day had gone. In any case, something had opened in him, and he couldn’t stop it even when he tried to bite his tongue a couple of times.

“Joyce,” he said more sincerely than he’d felt in ages, “even if we went our separate ways and lost track of each other for a while, you’ve been my best friend for as long as I can remember. If you weren’t enough for me, the cocky self-confident brat in me would have dumped your younger self a long time ago, don’t you think? But that’s what’s great about us; we have so many memories together. I mean, sure, we’ve had our share of grief along the way… I don’t know about you, but I for one have had enough of this shit. But enough of you? Never.”

It was in the midst of all these thoughts that he realized he had never felt such strong emotions for a woman—not even Diane—and however many words he might try to put into this heartfelt confession, it would never really do justice to how he truly felt. It was like he’d gathered all these words for so long, harshly pushing them down and down deeper, causing a crushing pain inside as if he’d forced them with the heel of his hand to make room for more—first in his heart, then when it was full, in the pit of his stomach. And now unable to hold them back, they just surged out of him, flowing out of their own accord, desperately trying to keep pace with his mind. The words and thoughts that for so long had made drawing deep breaths difficult if not impossible most of the time now broke free, and like the breach of a dam it had also unplugged his lungs, restoring them to their regular function, and he inhaled freely for the first time in months. He felt eerily calm about it—barely acknowledged the delicious thrill running through him.

Her voice close to tears, she wrapped his arms tighter around her. “I told you it was silly. Maybe I’m not used to so much happiness within the same small vicinity. That in addition to all the beautiful things you just said… It’s a bit overwhelming, you know?”

“Overwhelming,” he echoed in a hushed voice.

_Overwhelming_ … He knew what she meant. Absently looking up, a sigh exhaled from his body of its own volition. He took a deep breath, their little private bubble seeming to slowly expand along with his chest, and he became aware again of their family and friends surrounding them, invading their personal space in a manner that brutally reminded him of where they were. There was nothing neither little nor remotely private about their bubble. Not that Hopper noticed anyone staring, in fact, he couldn’t care less what everybody else was doing right now. Although now that he thought about it, he hoped Murray wouldn’t interrupt their moment like a fucking Jack-in-the-box—and hated himself for the image of Murray popping up into his mind like a fucking Jack-in-the-box all the same.

Hopper’s hands guided Joyce to turn around in his embrace, pivoting her until she was forced to tilt her face up to look at him. He stared down at her a short moment then took her hand, his fingers twining tightly through hers. “Come with me,” he said and led the way to the blissfully empty kitchen.

He pulled out a chair from under the kitchen table, commanded her to “Sit,” and pulled one out for himself, dragging it so as to sit in front of her, his long legs enclosing her, knees brushing against her thighs.

Taking her hands in his, he leaned toward her and bore his eyes into her own. “You wanna talk about overwhelming?” he went on even when he knew he should shut up, his voice barely masking the urgent ardor simmering in his veins. He hoped at least it conveyed sincerity and assurance. “I know you said to take it slow, and fuck me if I already told you I love you, because if I listened to myself, like actually listened, I’d say it again every other hour.” She squeezed his hands a bit tighter, her thumbs drawing small circles on the back of his hands. “It's not an infatuation, not a fling, not a substitute— _you're_ not a substitute, for anything—I don't want a one-night fuck, Joyce. I’m in love with you; I can’t tone down my feelings. _That's_ overwhelming, my dear.” Joyce’s face was glowing with the force of his confession, and he reached out to touch it. “And fuck me again, Joyce, but you know what I thought when you first told me we were married?” She shook her head imperceptibly, her gaze fastened on his. “I was sad. Because I had no recollection of it, and I wanted to remember that day. And then I thought I’d need to marry you again, even if it was only the two of us,” _and whether that will happen or not, in the meantime, I want to buy you a ring, but that will be a surprise—I can’t really spoil everything in just one sentence, can I? Hell if I can’t, but I won’t—and I want to proudly wear a band on my finger,_ “and I’ll be damned if I’m going to take back any damn single solitary word I just told you or if I’ve ever talked like this before to a woman—to anyone, really. And dammit you were right, these heart-to-hearts feel so good, but please stop me because I’m getting too loud and I’ve bottled it all up for too long and I feel high and drunk and maybe I am and I really, _really_ need to shut up now.”

Wiping a tear away, her face was solemn when she bent forward to wind her arms around his neck. Hopper felt like an enormous weight had finally been lifted off his chest—which it had—but now he stood slightly terrified that it had been lifted way too early for Joyce to handle it.

“Oh no,” he said into her neck a little more calmly, “please don’t cry or I’ll have to join you too.” He pulled back gently, bringing his hands to her face and wiping her cheeks with his thumbs.

The emotion flooded her eyes, making her breathtakingly beautiful. Her sexy, well-shaped lips. The small curve of her nose. The specks of gold in her kind hazel eyes. Her high cheekbones rosy with the slightest touch of makeup and either the ambient heat or alcohol or desire—or all of the above. The untamed hair that kept her forever young. Her finely etched profile engraved in a thousand shared memories for his heart to reminisce upon. The proud dignity in the tilt of her chin. The calming effects her benevolent face—as beautiful as it had been thirty years ago even if now slightly lined, a slight slip of vulnerability—had on him… He knew all of these features and facets and loved them all deeply. She had tantalized him for years, teased him with wildness and challenged him with her sharp and intricate intelligence, her unpredictableness, and he now wanted nothing more but to unfurl her like an alluring red rose. A flush swam through his body, seeping slowly into him like a slow IV drip of morphine, hot and sultry, desire churning low in his stomach.

She shook her head. “I’m not crying,” she cried with her tiny crying voice, and wiped her face again.

Still feeling a little high, he smiled brightly at her.

“Are you finished?” Joyce asked, her voice frayed with emotion, and came to sit on his lap, threaded her legs around his, her arm draping over his shoulders, and he wrapped his own around her waist.

“Did I say too much?”

A quivering smile bravely crossed her face. “No…but if you’ve got more, save it for later, and breathe,” she said softly, stilling his face in her hands.

He rolled his eyes, but blinked back the tears threatening to spill onto his cheeks as well. “I’m breathing.” _Obviously_.

“For a moment I wasn’t sure—I don’t want you to experience apnea when I kiss you.” Something primal, almost carnal, lit up in her smiling eyes.

She used her thumb to trace his lips and he inhaled the deep intake of air demanded both by her and his longing chest. She leaned in, and her quivering mouth captured his. She tenderly rubbed her tongue across his slightly parted lips. Eyes closed, they breathed each other in and out for a blissful moment that seemed to want to steal more wordless words out of the other’s chest, softly moaning and sighing in synchrony, until not-so-wordless words whispered into his mouth, “I love you, Hop.”

This was his cue. “Don’t you go getting sentimental on me, Joyce,” he murmured into her mouth, and he muffled her chuckle with his own. Then, letting one hand drift to the small of her back and moving the other up to her neck, he drew her closer, pressing his lips onto hers; a kiss that was warm and moist and with a fullness that made speech or thought impossible. He felt her melt into his arms and he welcomed the weight, bunching her up into his arms yet again as she gripped his shoulders with fingers so tight and strong that he felt relief slip through him that she had in fact been ready to handle the incendiaries he'd just unloaded, and now quenched his thirst for her. Still, he was grateful they were both sitting because he wasn’t sure his legs were ready to hold him. It would take time to build his strength back to what it had been, if he ever regained his former condition, but right now he knew she currently was the only reason for his weakness.

“Since when do you dare to be bare?”

All these thoughts out of his chest, yes, Hopper did feel utterly naked, a tender fervor that made his heart swell, but weirdly not as exposed as he might have imagined. The vulnerability he could have felt regarding his feelings for Joyce before was an old memory. Now she just took his breath and unfolded him and stole all the things he knew.

He dropped his chin to his chest and laughed. “Who would have known, eh?” He was the first one surprised by this sudden burst of eloquence.

Her eyes were deep and golden, staring openly into his soul as he gazed back at her for another moment, feeling his heart constrict in his chest as his stomach performed a somersault, leaving him short of breath. After pushing her hair out of the way with a gentle hand so he could bury his face in the crook of her shoulder, he cradled her in his arms, molding his tall frame to her small one, inhaling deep and full, taking in long deep breaths of her perfume, feeling intoxicated in the softest way, he showered the soft skin of her neck with scratchy-bearded kisses until she giggled, pushing his shoulders away, craning her neck, squirming and writhing and wiggling as she tried and failed to extricate herself from his unyielding bear hug.

“Hop, stop—” she begged, crying with shrieks of laughter. “Stooooop!”

He didn’t—not right away anyway. He did, however, when he sensed she was getting out of breath. He pulled back, loosening his arms around her and looking at her face flushed and alight with barely controlled glee. Her hair stuck out all over her head from her recent struggle against him, and he smoothed it with his hands.

“So please, Joyce, for the sake of your poor old hubby, no more nonsense about you not being enough for me.”

“Okay, Hop,” she breathed, “rookie mistake.”

He nodded complacently. They held each other’s gaze for a moment, and little by little, Hopper became increasingly aware of where they were—noises around them slowly getting louder as if time had held its breath for them and now it resumed its normal pace.

“Come dance with me,” he said. “Let’s not have this unnerving excess of happiness ruin the night. Let me show you what a terrible dancer I am instead.”

That earned him another smile from her. Back in the living room, he pulled her toward the center of the room, made her swing under his right arm, and linked his hands at the small of her back while hers went to rest at the back of his neck.

“I’m all for making the most of it,” he said as he started to sway his hips against hers in rhythm to the music. “And I don’t mean just tonight, Joyce.”

“Me too, Hop… Last summer almost changed everything.”

“It kind of did, Joyce. Maybe not everything, but… It may all just have been a blessing in disguise.” As far as he was concerned. And there was that.

“Ten. Nine. Eight,” came the shouts around them, and Hopper and Joyce joined in. “Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One. HAPPY NEW YEAR!”

“Happy fucking new year, you guys!” Robin shouted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Judging by the length of these final three chapters, you can tell that I didn’t want it to end. There’s always so much that can happen, and maybe I’ll think of something to add in a sequel…who knows? In any case, thank you all for reading it :)
> 
> About the songs performed by Steve and Robin—I love these two, too, and I’m really interested in knowing what will happen to them in the future:  
> “Close My Eyes Forever” is a duet by Lita Ford with Ozzy Osbourne and was released in 1988, so it’s a little anachronism in this story, but oh well… The first song, in case you didn’t recognize it, was “Up Where We Belong”.


End file.
